


i'll forget seventeen

by orphan_account



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Angry Makeouts, Angst, Cigarettes, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, No Magic AU, Past Child Abuse, Sexual Tension, Violence, angry boy tears, based off of the trailer for 'being 17' bc it sounds rlly good, basically troubled boys, implied/referenced abuse of all kinds, troubled!Simon, troubled!baz, violin!Baz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: the year baz is seventeen, he lives with his mother and his little sister, mordelia. he excels in school, and has a strong vision for his future- but baz is bullied by his classmate, simon.  unaware of the volatile relationship between the two boys, baz's mother invites simon to stay with them- due to the fact that his father is sick. baz and simon find themselves living together, and struggling to build a relationship that swings between attraction and animosity.I'M GIVING UP ON THIS FIC BECAUSE I'VE BURNT OUT ON IT SORRY HAVE A NICE LIFE EVERYONE





	1. chapter one

**_“_ ** _ If your hate could be turned into electricity, it would light up the whole world.” _

— Nikola Tesla

Baz walked from his classes through the snow, hoping his mum had parked nearby to pick him up, and that his hands wouldn’t freeze by the time he made it to the car, despite his gloves. The chatter of his classmates around him was nothing but background noise- and he kept walking as a group of boys shoved each other playfully, as two girls giggled at the display, as the other teens threw fistfuls of snow at each other. He was tired and cold after a long day at school, and internally bemoaned the amount of homework he had to do. 

The sky was gray, and the cold air nipped against his face- the only exposed skin on his body. It was the dead of winter. Baz hated winter- hated the snow and the cold and the endless, cloudy skies. The only good part was the holidays, and now that they were over, he had nothing to hold him over until spring. He lost himself in mundane thought- the exam on tuesday, the new violin piece he was learning, his favorite coffee shop-  until he noticed the boy walking behind him, taking long strides. It almost looked like he was trying to catch up to Baz. 

The boy walked quickly, until their paces were even. He was blonde, shorter than Baz, but strong- with broad shoulders and a cheap haircut. Simon Snow- they were in the same year. For a moment, their eyes caught. Blue on grey- a charge of possibility. Of animosity. And then Simon shoved Baz-  _ hard _ \- straight into the drift of snow behind him. He fell, his violin case crunching into his back as he hit the cold ground, snow clinging to his clothing. Baz righted himself quickly, disentangling himself from the snow drift- watching as Simon walked past him without so much as a backward glance. 

….

His mother’s car was idling at the curb, and Baz climbed in, giving his mother a quick kiss on the cheek before settling into the passenger seat. She smiled at him. “Was your day good?” 

“Yeah.” Baz replied, giving her his own weak smile in return. She frowned at the snow on his coat, clinging to jeans and dark hair- the dark hair that they both shared. 

“Where’d that come from?” She asked, brushing stray snowflakes from his shoulder. 

“I tripped.”

…

Baz was used to casual antagonism in his life, considering the fact that he was openly gay in a less than accepting community- but he didn’t talk to his mum about it. She knew, of course, that he preferred boys, but she didn’t know he was being bullied because of it. She couldn’t have known, because he accepted the taunts and pranks, insults and glares- all with the same cool grace. He was nearly unshakable, at least in public-  and before today, no one had ever become physically violent with him. 

It was just a shove. Did that even count as violence? It wouldn’t leave a bruise, wouldn’t leave a stain or a broken bone. The snow would melt off his clothes and dry. He was fine.  _ He was fine. _ So why did he feel like something had changed? Simon had been acting this way since he moved to their tiny little town in hampshire, but it hadn’t been physical until that day. Before, it was long looks in classes, Simon glaring at Baz until one of them had to break eye contact. Simon spitting at him in the hallways. Simon upending his lunch tray on the floor- but never Simon touching him. 

He didn’t fight back. It wasn’t worth it, and it only made things harder for him in the long run. He had more to worry about than a headstrong, vicious classmate. He had to keep his grades up. He had to keep practicing violin. He had to make sure no one was picking on his little sister. 

At fourteen, Mordelia was a younger, wilder version of their mother. She was taking cello lessons, stubbornly, despite the fact that she’d do much better playing on the football team. Baz knew she looked up to him, and now that she was in high school, the last thing he wanted was someone picking on her just because they didn’t like him. He had a few friends, but that was mostly because he’d lived in hampshire since childhood- anyone new to the town seemed to have an instant distaste for him. 

So that was where the bullying came in, which wasn’t really a problem unless it was Simon. No one else was as persistent as him. Sure, some of the boys would sneer at Baz in the hallways and call him a fag, but that was the limit to their hostility. It was never consistent, never a real threat. Never something that made him angry- not the same way Simon did. 

Something about the other boy’s malice made Baz want to fight. To fling back words dripping with acid as soon as Simon dropped an insult. To knock him over the same way he’d been knocked over that day- or worse. Sometimes, he almost did it, too- sometimes he almost lashed out to punch the smirk right off the other boy’s face. He always held himself back, though, at just the last moment. He always reminded himself that it wasn’t worth it to bruise his knuckles. It wasn’t worth it to see the disappointment on his mother’s face. 

Baz had a temper, but he kept it well leashed. 

…

“-you know Simon? He’s adopted.” At first, Baz thought he’d heard his mother wrong at dinner. They were eating lasagna, and Mordelia was paying more attention to her phone than the conversation. 

“What?” Baz choked on his food. 

“Simon.” Natasha repeated. “He’s in your class- adopted- and apparently his father’s sick.” 

“I know who Simon is.” Baz said, trying not to glare at his pasta. He didn’t want to hear about Simon right now, and had no idea why his mother would be bringing him up at dinner. 

“Oh, good.” Natasha said, stabbing at her pasta with a fork. “That should make this easier.” 

“Make  _ what _ easier?” 

“Didn’t you hear any of what I was saying, Basilton?” His mother shook her head at him. “Simon’s coming to stay with us for awhile. His father is sick.” 

“No.” It was all Baz could manage. “He’s not staying with us.” 

“He has to walk two hours both ways to school- every single day.” Natasha said. “It’s the least we could do. I suggested it for his schoolwork. His father seemed grateful for the opportunity.” 

“He’ll never come.” Baz argued. 

“Why not?” Natasha crossed her arms, her forehead wrinkling in concern. Mordelia looked up from her phone. 

“He hates me.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true, Basilton. He seems like a nice boy.” 

“Have you ever met him?” Baz had to fight back a laugh. “He’s a loner” 

“He’s handsome.” His mother argued, and Baz rolled his eyes. 

His mother was a doctor, and she had a righteous streak that meant they ended up serving canned goods to the homeless on most holidays. This wasn’t the first charity project she’d suggested, but it was certainly the craziest. Home was the only reprieve he got from Simon’s ceaseless needling- and he didn’t need it to become a warzone, too. 

“He’s not staying with us.” Baz repeated.  

“I wish you wouldn’t fight me on this.” Natasha crossed her arms. “I've already decided. He’s coming to stay with us, and you need to learn to live with it.”

“It’s not going to end well.” Baz advised, his food forgotten on the table. The idea of Simon coming to live with them stirred a sick, anxious feeling in his gut- and he pushed his plate away. He’d lost his appetite. Mordelia was back to playing on her phone, and their mother was frowning at her plate. For a long moment, the room was silent- only the hum of electric heat to fill the quiet until his mother spoke. 

“Make an exception for him, Baz. Apparently he doesn’t have many friends, and he’s struggling in school.” Natasha reached across the table to take his hand. “Just give him a chance.” 

He couldn’t say no to his mother, not without revealing the volatile situation with Simon. There was no easy way out, and his mother was so stubborn it wouldn’t make a difference if he argued. It would just make him blow up. There was nothing he could do to stop the storm brewing on the horizon, so Baz swallowed his pride, and nodded. 

“It’ll be fine.” His mother re-assured him. “He’s a nice boy.” 

_ He’s not.  _ Baz thought, but he didn’t say anything. He just smiled weakly, and tried to pretend that nothing had changed- even though everything was about to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo i have like?? little to no plans on where this fic is going but i wanted to post it anyways?? oops?? the concept is loosely based off the film 'being 17' although i've only seen the trailer, so it can't follow the plot very accurately.


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve spoken to your father,” The doctor started. “And I’m aware of your situation-” At this, Simon felt his pulse spike. He didn’t want to go back into the system- he’d deny it, anything they said. He’d lie until they gave up, he’d- “I was wondering if you wanted to come live with my family for awhile, while your father recovers.” 
> 
> “What?” Simon couldn’t stop himself- it slipped out.

 

_“If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed.”_

— Sylvia Plath

It was too cold out to be walking all the way to school, but Simon didn’t have much of a choice. The snow stuck to his boots and melted against the sturdy fabric, freezing his toes until they turned blue and threatened frostbite. The walk to school each day was probably a risk to his health, but it didn’t matter. It was better than being in the house with his father. Better than being in school with all his classmates- studying and gossiping and chattering for hours on end about who kissed who.

The two hour walk to and from school each day was his only release- his only break from the melodrama of his home life or the monotony of school. His classes bored him, so he didn’t make much of an effort. Simon had no idea what he wanted to do with himself, or his life- so it didn’t matter. The same went for his relationship with his father: why should he try when he had nothing to gain? Nothing to gain aside from blows that bruised him like a peach.

It wasn’t worth it- simple as that.

He didn’t try to get good grades, he didn’t try to make friends, he didn’t try to please others. He didn’t try to do anything- except make the life of Baz Pitch hell. He didn’t fully understand why he did that either, other than the fact that he hated the boy. Hatred wasn’t a good enough reason to try, and yet, he found himself making an extra effort for Baz.

Going out of his way to shove the other boy into the snow, or steal his fancy sheet music, or catch his eye for a meaningful glare. It was probably because Baz didn’t get riled up like everyone else did- the only sign of emotion he gave was the wrinkle that appeared between his eyebrows, every single time Simon pissed him off. It was like a game- how could Simon get Baz to snap? He had no doubts that Baz _could_ snap- everyone had a breaking point. It was the _how_ that proved to be the most intriguing. So far, he hadn’t figured out what it would take to get Baz to throw a punch.

Simon pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, and focused more on getting it lit between his teeth than the scenery. It was windy, so it took him a minute- but the effort was worth the reward. He took a long drag, and hot smoke filled his lungs for a moment before he exhaled. On mornings like this, where the sun did nothing to dull the unforgiving edge of winter chill- he was glad for a cigarette. The feeling of rough paper between his knuckles grounded him, calmed him, made him feel like maybe, today wouldn’t be as bad as yesterday.

That feeling always faded as soon as he reached the school gate each morning- stubbing his cigarette out against the brick wall before pocketing the butt for later. The calm of the ice and snow was replaced by a black static behind his eyelids, settling into a hum of restless, reckless energy for the rest of the day. He skipped english class and loitered against the sink in the boys bathroom. He tried going to maths but ended up leaving halfway through the class to carve _Frank Ocean_ lyrics into the janitor’s closet. He _did_ go to lunch though, and P.E. Those were his best chances to mess with Baz.

“Hey, knob head,”  Simon said, slamming the basketball straight into Baz’s chest. “Catch.”

Baz had fast reflexes, and caught the ball easily, but Simon saw the way it knocked the wind out of him. He saw the way Baz’s jaw set, and his eyebrows pulled together. Not angry, but at least annoyed. _Good._

“What do you want, Snow?” Baz sounded ticked off, passing the ball straight back to Simon, with plenty of force. The shorter boy caught it with ease, and bounced it back and forth against the ground.

Simon put a hand to his chest in mock-camaraderie. “I’m just trying to play a friendly round of basketball.” He nodded to their P.E teacher, who was busy trying to corral a group of first years. “It _is_ what we’re supposed to be doing after all.”

Baz narrowed his eyes, and Simon threw the ball again, aiming for his head this time. He thought the other boy would catch it, but he stumbled back- ducking to avoid the hit. Simon had put enough force behind the throw to know it would’ve hurt- even if he caught it- but he didn’t. The ball rolled away, forgotten, and Simon crossed his arms. The air sang with the hum of violence to come, and Baz righted himself.

“What’s your fucking problem?”

“I don’t have one.” Simon shrugged, and picked at his nails rather than looking at the other boy’s face.

“You’re being unnecessarily antagonistic.” Baz said. “I haven’t done anything to you.”

“ _‘Unnecessarily antagonistic,’_ ”Simon mocked, rolling his eyes. “What a posh git.”

“I’m sorry your parents didn’t teach you the meaning of ‘ _antagonistic_ ’,” Baz sneered. “They were probably too busy trying to put you up for adoption.”

It was a step too far, and they both knew it. Somewhere in Simon, glass shattered- and he lunged for Baz. He already had a fist pulled back for a swing- but then someone wrenched his arm back so hard it hurt.

“What the hell is going on here!?” It was Mr. Mac, the P.E teacher- and he looked right pissed. “I leave you alone for five minutes and a fight breaks out? This is your last year, you’re supposed to be working together- not squabbling like children!” He was pacing and fuming, and at his outburst, heads had turned throughout the gym. A minute ago, nobody was paying attention to the fight brewing between Simon and Baz- but now the whole class was watching. “I’m extremely disappointed in you two- but especially you, Baz. I didn’t think to expect this sort of thing from you.”

Baz was watching the ground instead of looking at the teacher- an easily identifiable sign of shame. Their teacher was obviously looking for some sort of an apology, but both boys remained silent. Simon held his ground, jerking his arm away from Mr. Mac’s grip and taking on a defensive stance- arms crossed, feet apart. He knew he’d been the one to start it, but he wasn’t about to tell that to a teacher. He turned his gaze towards Baz, and gave the dark haired boy a long look that simmered with malice.

“Well?” Mr. Mac demanded. “What do you two have to say for yourselves?”

“I’m sorry.” Baz choked out, still watching his own feet. “It won’t happen again.”

“Simon?” He turned his gaze on the other boy, who’s unforgiving expression revealed nothing.

“Sorry.” It was the expected answer- but Simon didn’t add anything else- choosing to turn his icy gaze on the gym wall instead, effectively ending his side of the conversation. It was obvious he didn’t mean it- but he didn’t care, and the teacher let it slide.

“Shake hands.” Mac said, gesturing at the two boys. For a moment neither of them moved, staring at the coach like he’d asked them to walk off a cliff, but then he repeated himself. “Come on, shake hands- like you mean it.”

Baz was the first to move, more willing to forgive, less prone to grudges and bitterness. He stuck out a hand to Simon, palm up, waiting. For a long moment, Simon just looked at the other boy’s hand. The palm lines and calloused fingertips, the joints and tanned skin. It looked like a trap. It looked like something to be used against him. He didn’t want to shake Baz’s hand, but everyone was watching. He didn’t have a choice.

Simon didn’t mean it, but he shook Baz’s hand anyways, trying to ignore the way the other boy’s fingers pressed into his wrist bone, the heat of their palms burning together. For a moment something broke inside him again, and he almost pulled Baz towards him- to punch him in the jaw, to knee him in the gut, to break each and every one of those miraculous, violin-playing fingers.

Instead, Simon let go, and stalked off to the locker room.

…

It wasn’t until his history class rolled around that he got called to the guidance counselor's office. He should’ve expected it- but somehow, he didn’t. He thought that intervention in gym class was the only punishment he’d be getting for his little fight with Baz. Mr. Mac would’ve mentioned the Dean if he was going to tell her- so he had no idea what the meeting was about.

Simon wracked his brain for an answer as he walked to the administration office- but he couldn’t think of anything. Maybe they were concerned with his health, and his walk to school at this time of year. Maybe his grades had fallen too far, and they were finally kicking him out. Maybe they’d finally figured out that the bruises didn’t come from the fights he picked- although, his father was too sick to do anything at the moment.

He didn’t know exactly what he was expecting to see in the office, but a smiling, middle-aged woman with dark hair and olive skin wasn’t it. She wasn’t the guidance counselor, but when he looked- he found the woman sitting right next to Miss Posibelf. Miss Possibelf, watford’s counselor, was an old, silver haired crone. Most people seemed to like her- mostly because she gave out free lemon-sherbert biscuits if she liked you- but Simon had an ingrained distrust of her profession.

Growing up in and out of foster care meant that he’d met with countless therapists and social workers, but none of it helped. He could never tell some kindly old lady how he was feeling- because what if he got sent away for it? A boarding school or treatment center for troubled youths was the last thing he needed- so Simon always hand fed the counselors lie upon lie about how he was _really_ trying in school, and how he _loved_ his new foster family.

He thought getting adopted, by an actual family who actually wanted him for good, would be better, and for a time it was. David and Lucy were a lovely couple, and Simon moved in when he was fifteen. At that point he’d already grown cautious of kindness from strangers- a thousand horrible things could happen to someone who grew up in foster care- but he’d avoided the worst of it by lashing out, violently. That’s why he’d stayed in the system for so long- no one wanted a kid who’d raked his nails down the face of his ‘father.’

Sometimes, he tried to remember what they did to him- and sometimes he could, but most of it happened when he was too young. He stayed in one particularly bad home the year he was six- young enough that he didn’t understand, but old enough to remember flashes and fragments. Most of his homes weren’t good- so when he came to live with the Salsburys, he was wary.

For the first few months, everything was like the social workers had said it would be. New school, new clothes, a clean bed to sleep in every night, hot meals… and love. Simon still thought fondly of Lucy, of the times before David’s grief had brought his world crashing down around him. She was a kind, blue-eyed woman with soft hands that always smelled like lavender. She was all that David had.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that David broke down when she died, that he started taking things out on Simon. She was always the one paying more attention to him anyways, so why would David fill in where she had left off? _It didn’t matter_ \- that’s what he always reminded himself. It didn’t matter if David hit him as long as he wasn’t back in care. As long as he wasn’t going back to half-broken memories, it didn’t matter. Anything was better than that.

“Simon!” Miss Possibelf greeted him cheerily, and gestured for him to sit down in the chair beside the middle aged woman. “This is Natasha Pitch- she’s a doctor at the hospital downtown, and she wanted to talk to you about your living arrangements.”

He felt a lurch of sick anxiety twisting in his gut at the word “doctor” and suddenly nothing else he heard mattered. He sat down, hoping not to look cagey as he watched the dark-haired woman- trying to calculate whether or not she was a threat. There was an intelligent spark to her eyes, but she had smile lines around her eyes- the kind that only came from a life of genuine happiness.

“I’ve spoken to your father,” The doctor started. “And I’m aware of your situation-” At this, Simon felt his pulse spike. He didn’t want to go back into the system- he’d deny it, anything they said. He’d lie until they gave up, he’d- “I was wondering if you wanted to come live with my family for awhile, while your father recovers.”

“What?” Simon couldn’t stop himself- it slipped out. He hadn’t even thought of his father’s illness. He’d been so worried they’d figured out his father's habits, he hadn’t even thought of the fact that David was sick.

“I know you have to walk two hours every day through the snow,” The doctor continued- like she hadn’t seen the shock on his face. “And at this time of year it isn’t healthy for you, and I thought you might want to come stay with my family.” She smiled warmly at him. “I have a son your age, and I thought you two could share a room...”

Simon had stopped listening halfway through the second time she suggested he came to stay with them. He hadn’t expected this out of the meeting, not even close. He thought he was getting suspended, or chastised for his horrible grades- not rescued. He wasn’t even sure if that was what it was, either- staying with this doctor could be even worse than staying with David. But at the very least, it would be closer to school, and closer to town…

“What did you say your name was again?”


	3. chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My brother doesn’t seem to like you very much.” She said, and Simon had to fight a wretched grin off his face, because obviously Baz didn’t like him.
> 
> “I know.”
> 
> “Why?” She asked, as he followed her down the hall to wherever they were eating. He could smell warm food, and a scent like garlic or caramelized onions wafted from the kitchen. He felt his mouth watering- he hadn’t eaten food like this in awhile.
> 
> Simon shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “We don’t get along.”

“ _You keep storing up all that anger and grief. Eventually it spills over. Or you drown in it.”_

— Leigh Bardugo

It wasn’t until Simon walked in behind Natasha that night that Baz really believed it. He’d been watching Netflix with Mordelia- some 80’s themed TV show about space and aliens- when his mum walked through the door. He looked over his shoulder with a smile, but it died on his face as soon as he saw the other boy. Simon stood in the doorframe, looking ill at ease in a pair of dark jeans, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

He hadn’t _really_ believed his mum when she said Simon was coming to stay with them- because it was one thing to suggest it, and another thing entirely to watch the other boy walk into his house. He was covered in snow and muck- which didn’t make sense because the whole point of Simon moving in was that he wouldn’t have to get himself covered in snow every day- but Natasha walked through the living room without hesitation, and bent to give Baz a kiss on the cheek. Like it was just another day, like Simon Snow wasn’t standing in the doorway, like everything was fine.

“Was your day good?” Natasha asked, like she did every day, making room for herself on the couch between her two children.

“Yeah,” Baz lied- thinking back to everything that had happened. The strings on his violin had finally broken this afternoon, he had a pile of poems to analyze for english class, and then there was the fight with Simon that day… “It was okay.”

“Mordelia?” His mother prompted, and the dark-haired girl tore her gaze away from the laptop- pausing her show. “I got an A on my essay,” She smiled, obviously hoping to earn brownie points for not being as sullen this evening. “And I got all my homework finished early.

“That’s lovely, darling!” Their mother exclaimed, smiling fondly before twisting around towards the doorway. “And what about you, Simon?”

 _Of course she would try to include him._ Baz thought- nearly following his mother’s gaze to his classmate. _Mum and her charity cases._ It was an effort not to roll his eyes.

“Fine.” Simon replied casually- his eyes on everything in the room but Baz. He gestured to his bag. “Is there anywhere I can put this?”

“Right down the hall,” Natasha said. “It’s the last door on the left.” Simon left the room without so much as a ‘ _thank you_ ’, and Baz whipped around to face his mother.

Those were the directions to his room. He was supposed to share a room with Simon? This couldn’t be happening- how was he supposed to sleep with the boy who hated him across the room? How could he shut his eyes and try to dream if he could hear Simon breathing? It was like his mum _wanted_ him to get strangled in his sleep. He waited until the other boy was out of earshot before he turned to Natasha, anxiety and anger coiling into a rattlesnake that hissed in his gut.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Baz said. “You know I can’t share with him!”

“Basilton!” His mum reprimanded. “Language!”

“Whatever,” Baz huffed. “It’s not like Mordelia hasn’t heard it before.”

“I _have_ heard it before.” Mordelia piped in- and their mum rolled her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter whether or not Mordelia’s heard it before,” Natasha lectured. “it’s about showing basic respect for your elders.”

“Sorry,” Baz said, too quickly to be sincere. “But I want to get back to the fact that you’re making me share a room with Simon _fucking_ Snow.”

“Basilton,” His mother said. “If I have to warn you again about your language-”

“I’m seventeen, Mum, I’m going to swear whether you’re there to hear it or not,” Baz didn’t mean to, but his voice was rising. “I wish you’d just _listen_ to me. Why in god’s name are you making me live with him, anyways?”

“Stop thinking about yourself for just one minute,” Natasha said, her voice suddenly cold- fed up with her son’s tone. “We’re giving him a place to stay- and I’m not about to let him stay in with _Mordelia,_ for christ’s sake! We may have a nice house, Basilton- but we don’t have enough room to set up for a guest.”

“So why did you even _invite_ him here?” Baz’s voice was all venom- he couldn’t believe she’d actually invited Simon to stay with them- and volunteered up his room, despite all his protesting.

“Because,” his mum said simply, folding her arms across her chest- the stance that meant she wasn’t budging. “It’s the right thing to do.”

…

Simon didn’t know what to make of the Pitch household- and it wasn’t until he actually walked into their living room that he put it together. Baz Pitch...Natasha Pitch. Maybe he _was_ as stupid as he’d been told. He spent the first fifteen minutes in their house quietly panicking in the room Doctor Pitch had directed him to- trying to ignore the signs all around him that screamed it was a bad idea.

The room itself, for starters, was a bad idea. There were two beds, but one of them looked like it’d been hastily crammed in- bought from ikea on some 50% off weekend sale. He could only guess the one missing sheets was his- where the other one had blankets and a navy comforter piled on top of it. There were pictures on the walls, too, posters for bands he’d heard of but never listened to, and professional family photographs. It smelled faintly of cedar and citrus, but the worst part was the violin- lying haphazardly on the desk, strings in snapped disarray.

The instrument was what confirmed his suspicions- that he was sharing a room with Baz. This had been a terrible, terrible idea- but how could he have known he’d end up forced to live with the boy he hated? It wasn’t like a foster home, if he started a fight or antagonized Baz- he could get in some serious trouble. He couldn’t be the one to display hostility in their own home, but when Baz was around he couldn’t help himself. He liked riling the other boy up too much to possibly stop now- but maybe he could at least _try_ not to be as vicious as usual, while they were at the house.

Simon sat down on his bare mattress, placing his duffle bag on the ground next to it- and tried to come up with some rules for himself. _No goading Baz._ That was the first rule he decided on- but then he realized it’d suck the fun out of his life. _At the house-_ he amended. _School is fair game._ He continued on in his head, ticking off ways to survive in his new environment _. Be polite to the doctor. Don’t flinch when she comes too close. Don’t ask for anything you don’t need. Don’t ask for help._

By the time he’d gotten himself into the right headspace to talk to someone without lashing out, it was nearly time for dinner. A girl, younger than him- with the same dark hair and tan skin as the doctor- ducked into the room.

“Are you going to eat with us?”

He watched the girl for a moment, warily, before standing from his perch on the bed. Simon stretched his arms, and yawned like a cat, his mouth pink and open- all casual, like he did this every day. “Sure, what are we having?”

“Pot roast.” The girl said, all casual, and narrowed her eyes when he stuck out his hand to her- but took it, reluctantly. “I’m Mordelia.”

“Simon.”

“My brother doesn’t seem to like you very much.” She said, and Simon had to fight a wretched grin off his face, because _obviously_ Baz didn’t like him.

“I know.”

“Why?” She asked, as he followed her down the hall to wherever they were eating. He could smell warm food, and a scent like garlic or caramelized onions wafted from the kitchen. He felt his mouth watering- he hadn’t eaten food like this in awhile.

Simon shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “We don’t get along.”

…

Baz was grinding his teeth- he couldn’t help it, it was what he always did when he was anxious. It helped that they were eating, but in between bites he felt his jaw tighten as he unconsciously started grinding again. At this rate, his teeth were going to be worn down to stubs by the time he made it to university. He kept his eyes on the food, but did his best to make half-hearted conversation with his Mum, which meant glancing up to see Simon. The reason he was grinding his teeth.

The other boy was sitting across from him, wolfing down his food like it was the first thing he’d eaten in a week. It would’ve been mildly disgusting if Baz hadn’t studied his arms- well muscled, but.. Thin. Too thin. He’d never seen Simon wearing anything but a heavy coat, and he’d assumed the other boy was ripped just because of his strength. Baz was 6’1- it wasn’t easy to push him over into the snow.

He wondered why Simon was so skinny- maybe his family hadn’t been able to afford food recently. Baz _knew_ they couldn’t afford a car- or else this whole mess wouldn’t’ve started itself. If Simon could just drive himself to school… It occurred to Baz that he didn’t even know if Simon could drive or not. On his first day at school he said he’d moved from London, so he was probably used to taking the tube everywhere.

Suddenly, Baz realized he didn’t know Simon at all. He knew the other boy was adopted, that Simon hated him because he was gay, or for whatever other reason Baz hadn’t pieced together yet- which really, meant he didn’t know anything at all. Did even want to know anything more about Simon?

 _No._ Baz decided. _Knowing he’s a bloodthirsty prick is enough._

Dinner was normal- albeit a little stiff, but by the end he’d almost forgotten that Simon was there. He’d relaxed a bit, stopped clenching his jaw, stopped avoiding the other boy’s gaze. Simon _had_ been unusually civil, and Mordelia seemed to like him well enough. _Maybe_ , Baz thought. _This won’t be a complete disaster after all..._

He was wrong.


	4. chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They never talked about the nightmares, even though they kept coming. Baz didn’t wake him up anymore, just glanced across the room when Simon sat up, a scream or a sob tearing from his throat.

“ _ Death is not the greatest loss in life; the greatest loss is what dies within us while we are alive: things like hopes, dreams, values and virtues.” _

— Norman Cousins

Simon wasn’t used to sleeping with someone else in the room- it had been at least three years since he’d had to share a room, back when he was in the foster system. He thought because it had been so long, it wouldn’t bother him to fall asleep with Baz there... But the sound of his breathing was unsettling. Every time Simon closed his eyes, he felt like someone was standing over him, hands ghosting over his biceps or his thighs. He couldn’t make it more than a minute without opening his eyes to confirm that the sound of steady, even, breathing was from Baz- that no one else was about to touch him. 

He shivered, and tried to relax into the darkness of the room, the soft cradle of the mattress, the security of warm blankets over his body. Every time he thought he’d done it- that he was about to fall asleep- he’d feel like someone was touching his hair, or hear Baz groan in his sleep. When a floorboard creaked in the hall, his eyes flew open, but he already realized it was probably just Baz’s little sister, up getting up for a drink of water. 

Maybe he was being paranoid- but really, with everything that had happened, it wasn’t paranoia. It was caution, prudence, vigilance. Paranoia was for people who didn’t know better. Caution, on the other hand, was for those who had seen all the cruelty the world had to offer. Simon rolled over, so he faced the wall. It was stupid, he knew sleeping like that wouldn’t stop anything from happening if he was asleep- but it felt safer. If all he could see was pale-blue plaster, maybe that’s all there really was. Maybe he could fall asleep without nightmares or memories that could’ve been dreams. 

…

Baz woke up in the middle of the night to a chorus of half muttered “no”’s- coming from the other side of the room. At first he was freaked out, and then he remembered Simon was living with them- and then he was creeped out all over again because why _ the fuck _ was Simon Snow muttering “ _ No _ ” and “ _ Stop” _ over and over again in his sleep? He sat up in his bed to look across the room- the other boy was asleep (at least, it looked like was was asleep) his back to the room, tucked under himself like he was hiding from something. 

Did Snow have  _ nightmares? _ At first the muttering had been whispers, but Simon’s voice was growing steadily louder- “ _ NO, please, no- stop, PLEASE _ -” and at this rate he was going to wake up the whole house. Baz sighed, and got out of his bed to go wake the other boy. He shook Simon’s arm, surprised by the feeling of sweat-slick skin- and then Simon was awake, slamming a fist into Baz’s gut, knocking the wind out of him as he fell back onto the carpet- faster than an asp striking a mouse. 

“Fuck!” Baz hissed, hunching over himself, glaring at Simon- who was sitting up now, drenched in sweat and moonlight. “What was that for?” 

He opened his mouth like he was going to say ‘ _ sorry _ ,’ and then abruptly closed it, looking away before mumbling something that sounded like: “Don’t touch me.” 

“What did you say?” 

“I said don’t touch me!” Simon snapped, crossing his arms across his chest- like he was trying to protect himself. There was something strangely vulnerable about him in that moment- wearing nothing but a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and recovering from a nightmare. He didn’t seem like the Simon Baz was used to. 

“Are... you okay?” He didn’t really want to know, but general politeness demanded he ask. It was what you did when you woke someone up from a nightmare- even if they  _ did  _ punch you for it. 

“What’s it to you?” Simon said, arms still crossed, fingers tap-tap-tapping on a bicep in an uneven rhythm. “I know you don’t give a shit about me, and you know I don’t give a shit about you either.” 

“You hate me.” Baz corrected him. “Which means you give some sort of shit about me- even if it’s an extremely vindictive, hostile shit.” 

“Don’t get your hopes up, Pitch.” Simon said- but it was lacking any heat. Maybe he was too tired to be properly mean, or too scared. Baz didn’t care, either way. 

“Whatever. Go to sleep, and this time don’t wake me up.” 

Simon didn’t apologize, but Baz saw him flinch, just barely. So he  _ was _ insecure about the nightmares. It really didn’t matter to him whether the other boy was having bad dreams, so long as he wasn’t losing any sleep over it, he didn’t care. Baz did wonder what they were about, though. What was so bad it caused the other boy’s subconscious to drag it out at night? What was so bad it made him whimper and shake like a frightened little boy? He couldn’t imagine anything scaring Simon. 

Instead of asking the other boy all the questions bouncing around his skull, Baz climbed into bed, and waited until Simon’s breathing evened out. It was only then, once he was sure the other boy was sleeping, that Baz could close his eyes, and sleep peacefully. 

…

They never talked about the nightmares, even though they kept coming. Baz didn’t wake him up anymore, just glanced across the room when Simon sat up, a scream or a sob tearing from his throat. Sometimes, if he was getting particularly loud and there was the chance that Simon would wake up Mordelia, Baz threw a pillow at him- and after that he always quieted down, at least for a little while. 

School was the same as always, Baz excelled in his classes with minimal effort, Simon tripped him in class- and neither of them had any real friends. Well, aside from Penelope Bunce- who really didn’t count because she only sought out Baz for school projects, and only sat with Simon at lunch just to prove she wasn’t scared of him. That girl was a firecracker- bright red hair, dark brown skin, loud and bold- wearing the kind of clothing that either came from a designer magazine or a thrift store. 

Baz generally liked her- except her nosiness. Penelope always wanted to know every detail about everything that was going on in the school, so it wasn’t a surprise when she sat down with him at lunch, just over a week after Simon had moved in. By now, people had seen them walking into school together every day- but that companionship was at odds with the cruel words they flung at each other. Only Penelope Bunce would be so bold as to go straight to the source for information. 

“Hello, Baz.” She said, casually, like they sat together every day. She pulled out a sandwich from her lunch bag, and opened it up- picking at it with neon-orange nails. 

“Penelope.” Baz replied, which could pass as a greeting between the two of them. He sat at the end of a table full of kids he’d grown up with- Dev, Niall, Trixie, Rhys- kids who didn’t dislike him, but kids who didn’t really care about him either. Penelope turned, obviously preparing herself for some juicy conversation she wouldn’t get out of him. She straddled the bench, which effectively cut their conversation off from everyone else at the table. (And looked distinctly uncomfortable in high-waisted jeans.)

“So, how’ve you been?” She asked, taking a bite of bread, slathered with peanut butter. She’d left the jelly side face-down in her plastic baggie. “We haven’t talked in forever.” Baz let it slide, choosing not to point out that she’d badgered him for his opinion on a political science article just last week. 

“My classes are going well, as I’m sure you know.” Baz smirked- Penelope was the only one in the school who could give him a run for his money when it came to academia. 

She just rolled her eyes. “Just because your essay got 100 and mine got 98 it doesn’t mean you have to smirk like that.” 

Baz tried not to smirk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Another eye roll. “Whatever, Baz. What’s going on with you and Simon?” 

He did have to give her kudos for getting to the point without fifteen minutes of small talk, like anyone else at their school would’ve. He shrugged noncommittally. “Nothing more than usual. Snow acts like a belligerent four-year-old, and I carry on with my life.” 

“Why are you guys walking to school together?” 

“Wow, Bunce,” Baz scoffed. “You’re really doing a good job on your stalking.” 

Penelope didn’t even deign an eye roll this time, her raised eyebrow said enough. Baz knew it would be easier to give into her pestering now than later, but it wasn’t his secret to give. It was Simon’s, too. “Come on, Baz.” She said, after their silence had become stretched thin by the chatter of students around them. “I know you’re not telling me something.” 

“Why would I?” Baz asked, knowing he was bordering on rude. “It’s none of your business, he’s just staying with my family for awhile, and if you want more answers than that- ask  _ him _ , not me.” He paused for a moment, and then to soften the blow, he said: “It’s not my story to tell.” 

Penelope accepted that in silence, and swiveled again, to sit normally on the bench- which meant the interrogation was over. She directed all her attention to her sandwhich, and a little black book she constantly scribbled in. Dev looked at him from the other side of the table- mouthing a question:  _ you alright?  _ Baz waved a hand and nodded, a signal that he was fine. He really was, Penelope could just be intense sometimes- and he hadn’t quite been expecting it. 

He supposed he should’ve expected it, though, considering that everyone in that school was a gossip-monger. That was usually the case with small towns- so he couldn’t really hold it against her. Everyone was so bored with their own miserable, pathetic lives that they made it their business to know about everyone else’s miserable, pathetic lives.

As long as Simon didn’t pick a fight, the rumors would die down. Eventually… 


	5. chapter five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d never been in a fight before- but he’d seen scenes in action movies. This wasn’t like that- elegant and brutal and perfectly choreographed. This fight was gritty, all breath knocked from lungs and hot blood trickling from noses, feet and arms and fists tangling together and slamming into skin so fast he couldn’t think. It didn’t hurt, at least not now when they were full of adrenaline and hatred so hot it burned their mouths.

_ “All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red. _ ”

— Kait Rokowski

Living with the Pitches could’ve been worse. Simon got hot meals, a warm bed, someone else washing his clothes and doing the shopping… he got a home- even if it was just for a little while. Even if Baz also happened to inhabit that home. That was the only downside to it, really, and even then he could copy off the other boy’s homework if he forgot to do his. It was the hardest not to provoke Baz here, though- where he was at his weakest, his most vulnerable. 

At home, Baz practiced violin and helped his little sister with her algebra homework while they watched thriller TV shows on the couch. At school, he strode to all his classes with his head held high, reminding everyone around him that he was the best student, the best looking, the most wealthy… that he had everything. Maybe  _ that  _ was what really bothered Simon. Maybe that was what made it easier to hate him there- to talk shit behind his back and to his face in the school courtyard each day. 

People still whispered when they walked through the gate together each morning, but it didn’t change their dynamic at school, so really, it was a waste of their breath. Simon still hated Baz, and Baz still put up with him because he had to. The only thing that  _ had  _ changed was the tension. Normally, their relationship was on thin ice, but not quite to the breaking point. Now, it was like a rubber band stretched taut- the slightest resistance, and it would snap.

They ignored each other in the house, because kicking each other under tables wouldn’t do them any good. As much as Simon wanted to slam his foot into Baz’s shin each night over dinner, he resisted it. He was almost proud of himself for it- the other boy was even more of a pretentious git at home, so it took more restraint. School on the other hand, was his only outlet. He slammed his locker shut, swung doors open wide, crashed into people in the hall, carved angry almost-poems into the desks, tripped Baz in their humanities class… It wasn’t enough. 

Simon still wanted to punch the other boy any time he used a word with more than three syllables. He still wanted to break Baz’s elegant, fine-boned hands every time he played the violin. He still wanted to scream at him every night to  _ shut up _ , to  _ stop looking _ \- even though the other boy never said anything about the nightmares. He just watched, and listened- and somehow that was worse than if he’d teased Simon about them. 

He knew what to do with “ _ Hey Snow, are you having  _ nightmares _? Are you afraid of the dark? Or is it something different… why don’t we find out, huh? Come here.. _ ” He didn’t know what to do with silences filled only by the sound of his panic attacks, trying to breathe normally. He didn’t know what to do with charged glances or indifference. He felt  _ seen.  _ He felt  _ known.  _ He didn’t like it. He wanted it to stop. 

…

Baz had a long day, and by the time his classes got out- there was nothing more he wanted than a ride home and a stop for coffee. Natasha was at a long shift at the hospital though, which meant she couldn't pick up Baz and Simon today. Normally they walked, but sometimes, when it was particularly cold- she took the five minute drive from their house to pick the boys up.

Not today, though. Today, he had to wait for Simon in the courtyard, milling around with the other students, shivering as the snow fell down around him. It had snowed an unusual amount this winter, which meant his feet were always wet and his hands were always cold. He was impatient- school had ended fifteen minutes ago and Simon had yet to emerge from the building where their classes were held. He was probably loitering inside somewhere, simply to spite Baz. That would be just like him, always making sure he had a bone to pick. 

He waited for another five minutes, scrolling on his phone until a wet snowball hit him in the shoulder, and slush flew onto his cheeks. He looked up to see Simon, whose face was flushed in the cold, and let out a snarl of: “Really? do you have to be so juvenile?”

The other boy rolled his eyes, not stooping low enough to respond to Baz.  “What were you doing, anyways?” Baz asked. “You’re twenty minutes late.” 

“Talking to a teacher.” When Simon wasn’t insulting Baz, he kept his answers infuriatingly short. 

“About what?” Baz said. “The fact that you’re failing out all of your classes, or the fact that you’re an unmotivated bully?” 

“Fuck off, Pitch.” Which meant he’d hit the nail on the head. “No one asked you to stick your big head into this.” 

“Cry me a river, Snow- you’re just jealous that I actually have something to be proud of,” Baz shot back. “I’m not a dead-beat orphan with no one who really loves him.” 

Simon’s eyes flashed, and his lips pressed into a thin line- the first sign of whatever storm was brewing inside him. “At least my mother knew when to give up on me.” 

“At birth?” 

Baz hadn’t been expecting the hit when it came, a punch to the stomach that knocked the wind out of him so fast he heaved, and then a kick to the shins. He doubled over in pain, before adrenaline roared to life through his system, urging him to fight back. He managed to land a punch on Simon’s jaw, and he knew somewhere, absently, that his hand hurt- but it didn’t matter. This was the last straw. He let Simon talk down to him, humiliate him infront of everyone- but he refused to let Simon beat him without a fight. 

The other boy stepped back, seemingly surprised that Baz had even tried- and put a hand to his lip. It was bleeding, he must’ve cut it on his teeth. When Simon smiled it was an animal’s grin- red and gaping. He spat into the snow, staining it red- an indolent and unthreatened gesture. “Is that all you’ve got, Pitch?” 

Heads had started to turn across the courtyard, stragglers running late to get home, indulging in the show. 

“No.” Baz said, before plowing into Simon like a freight train. He wasn’t particularly well muscled, but he was tall, and his height gave him an advantage- at least this time. They fell back into the snow, and Simon scrambled for purchase against the wet ground. Baz grabbed his wrists to keep him in place, but didn’t prepare for the other boy’s knee slamming into his ribs. He couldn’t help it- a strangled groan slipped from his mouth before Simon tore free of his grasp and punched him in the face. 

He’d never been in a fight before- but he’d seen scenes in action movies. This wasn’t like that- elegant and brutal and perfectly choreographed. This fight was gritty, all breath knocked from lungs and hot blood trickling from noses, feet and arms and fists tangling together and slamming into skin so fast he couldn’t think. It didn’t hurt, at least not now when they were full of adrenaline and hatred so hot it burned their mouths. 

Someone grabbed him by the collar of his coat, yanking him back so fast that his swing missed, and met only open air. Baz cursed, and struggled to free himself from whoever had grabbed him by the neck, but they’d already pulled him back. Someone was grabbing Simon too, who was laughing like a crazed hyena- a girl with bright red hair and brown skin. Penelope. 

“Christ, Simon!” she said- she was the only one who’d ever called him that, other than his mother. “Are you trying to get yourself expelled?” 

He laughed. “It’s outside of school hours. We can’t get in trouble for this.” 

“You’re on  _ school grounds _ .” She chastised. “I thought you were smarter than this.” 

That meant that her campadre, willowy Agatha Wellbelove, had been the one to pull him off of Simon. Maybe he wasn’t as strong as he thought… He pulled himself out of her grip and turned to face her. 

“Sorry.” She said, but her beautiful face held no remorse. “It was Penny’s idea.” 

Now that he wasn’t grappling with Simon, his face started to hurt. He wiped at his nose, and his hand came away red. 

“Fuck,” Baz spat. “My mum is going to kill us.” 

Agatha shrugged, as if to say ‘ _ Not my problem’  _ and stalked off towards Penelope. Those two were attached at the hip- it was no wonder Bunce had roped her into helping break up the fight. She was still talking to Simon, trying to talk him down, and he was still grinning like a mad man until she said something and he scowled, tearing himself from her grip. He prowled towards Baz and grabbed him by the arm. 

“Let’s go.” He said, fight seemingly forgotten despite his split lip and bruising knuckles. “I’m hungry.” 

“We can’t go back to the house like this.” Baz protested. “My mum would flip shit.” 

“Then figure something out, Einstein.” Simon didn’t seem at all affected by the fight, aside from his physical appearance- but Baz felt woozy. He tried to think of places they could go to clean themselves up.. But nothing came to him. After fifteen minutes of standing outside the school gates, thinking and avoiding Penelope- Simon sighed. “Come on. I know a place.” 


	6. chapter six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon watched the dynamic with detached interest- this was how siblings were supposed to act. This was what a family was. Bickering, but taking care of each other. Supporting one another. He wondered, for half a moment, what it would be like to have those things for himself. To have someone to rely on, someone who would support him without wavering. And then he stopped himself- because Simon knew it didn’t do him any good to dwell on day dreams.

“ _ In this life, you have to take responsibility. Even for what’s unpleasant. It’s a lesson we each must learn, however painfully _ _. _ ”

—Sonya Hartnett

“ _ This  _ is where we’re going?” Baz couldn’t curb the annoyance from his voice. Simon had pulled them halfway across town, on foot, through the snow- to a convenience store. 

“Yeah,” Simon said- either ignoring Baz’s tone, or not caring. “They sell first aid supplies for cheap, the bathrooms are clean- and they don’t I.D on cigarettes.” 

“Fine.” Baz mumbled. “Whatever, it’s not like we have anywhere better to go.” Simon rolled his eyes, and pulled the other boy into the store. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting- well lit, clean, organized. Judging by what the other boy had said, Baz had thought it would look distinctly seedier. Simon walked down the aisles, familiarity cutting a path that Baz trailed behind. This wasn’t the kind of place he’d expected Simon to haunt, but judging by how well he navigated the store, he came here often. 

When Baz caught up to the other boy, he found him standing before packages of gauze, bandages, and neosporin patches. “How bad is your face?” Simon said, without looking up from the packages. 

“It’s not bleeding anymore and..” He quickly checked his hands and felt around his face. “I don’t think I have any open wounds.” 

“Great.” Simon said. “All you have to do is wipe the blood off- there’s nothing to be done about the bruises.” The other boy was sporting a shiner and a split lip, but Baz had no idea if he looked any worse. 

“Where’s the bathroom?” Simon rolled his eyes at the question, but pointed to the back corner of the store. “Thanks.” 

As he walked down an aisle full of crisps and chocolate to get to the bathroom, he realized for the first time, he and Simon had been able to communicate without fighting. Baz thought it was sort of ironic, that in the aftermath of a bloody brawl, they could finally talk to each other without twisting a knife in the other’s back. Maybe they could only ever talk to each other after they were hurt. 

The bathroom was clean, and the overhead light wasn’t filled with the bodies of dead moths, so Baz counted it as a win. His face was a mess, though- a trickle of dried blood ran from his nose, and his jaw was swollen. His knuckles were already turning purple- which meant he didn’t even want to look at the damage done to his stomach and his ribs. Baz supposed, that when you suffered from malnutrition, it made your knees rather bony. Rather fine weapons to slam into someone else’s gut. 

When he emerged from the bathroom, he felt cleaner, and all the blood was gone from his face. After a few splashes of cold water, the swelling on his jaw had gone down, too. Simon took his turn, and Baz browsed through the snacks, leafing through a magazine as he went. He didn’t expect things to be this easy- but he supposed the hard part hadn’t come yet. They still had to go home- and they both wore marks from their fight. 

Simon came back a few minutes later, payed for a pack of cigarettes (along with some first aid supplies,) and then gestured at Baz to join him. They stepped out of the store together, and as soon as they were out, Simon lit up- taking a drag before blowing out clove-scented smoke. 

“You smoke?” Baz asked- he never knew, and he supposed it was sort of an irrelevant question, considering the fact that Simon was currently smoking. 

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” Simon replied, scorn coloring his voice. The other boy held the cigarette with a familiarity that was unsettling, that spoke to weeks and months getting used to holding a flaming cancer stick between his fingers. A part of Baz was intrigued, and a part of him was disgusted. 

“That’ll kill you, you know.” He stuffed his hands in his coat pocket. “Do you want to die of lung cancer at forty-five?” 

“Yes.” Simon deadpanned, seemingly apathetic, taking another long drag off the cigarette. 

Baz shook his head. “I can’t keep you from killing yourself.” 

....

Natasha still wasn’t back when they got to the house, which was good, because she’d probably kill Simon for smoking  _ and  _ beating up her son. If he was going to have a bad day, a moment of weakness, he might as well make it a  _ really  _ bad day. Hence the cigarette- he’d been trying not to smoke as much simply because he was living with a doctor and a freshman who didn’t need a bad example in her life. 

Baz didn’t seem to care that much though, only arguing for a minute.  _ It’s always easier,  _ Simon thought.  _ When people don’t care about you.  _ Maybe he could start smoking on the way to school again, if Baz really didn’t care. Even if someone  _ did  _ care- it wouldn’t stop him. He had to take some simple pleasures in life, even if they were his slow attempt at suicide. 

Mordelia was sitting on the couch when they opened the door, trying to play her cello while watching something on netflix. She had the subtitles turned on, probably because the music was drowning out the actor’s voices. 

“I’m home.” Baz said- and Simon rolled his eyes- because  _ obviously  _ they were home. They slammed the front door behind them on purpose, so Mordelia could hide all her chocolate from plain sight. 

“God, you two took forever,” Mordelia sighed, not even looking over her shoulder. “mum left us a pizza, you were supposed to be home an  _ hour  _ ago.” 

She finally turned around, pausing her show, about to tell them off for something else they missed- but her jaw dropped. “Jesus Christ, Baz! Did you get mugged on the way home?” 

For once, the other boy was at a loss for words, “Uh…” and Simon couldn’t help himself, a laugh slipped out. 

She looked at Simon too, and then narrowed her eyes at his own wounds. “Or did you two get into a fight?” He hadn’t expected to be pinned so accurately, so quickly, and definitely not by  _ Mordelia _ . 

“Um..” Now Simon was stammering too, trying to come up with an excuse, but Baz just shrugged and sat down on the couch, sprawling out like he was exhausted.  He probably  _ was _ exhausted- Simon was only hanging on out of will power and general paranoia. 

“Don’t tell mum.” He said, like it was that simple- and Mordelia rolled her eyes. 

“She’s going to find out anyways, but I won’t rat you two out.” She looked Simon up and down with a critical eye- too intelligent for someone her age. “He got in a few good hits, huh?” 

“Whatever.” Simon huffed, sitting down on the other end of the couch, as far from Baz as possible. He was too tired for verbal sparring. “You should see his ribs.” 

“They hurt.” Baz said simply, eyes shut, hair falling in his face. He looked moments away from falling asleep, and Mordelia shoved his shoulder. He let out a groan- either from her insistence that he stay awake, or the pain of his bruises being touched. “I said it  _ hurt _ .” 

“I’m getting some ice.” She said, and stalked off to the kitchen, presumably to dig around in the freezer for frozen peas and the like. Simon watched the dynamic with detached interest- this was how siblings were supposed to act. This was what a family was. Bickering, but taking care of each other. Supporting one another. He wondered, for half a moment, what it would be like to have those things for himself. To have someone to rely on, someone who would support him without wavering. And then he stopped himself- because Simon knew it didn’t do him any good to dwell on day dreams. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, this one's a little short- but that's because i have more important plans for the next chapter!! hope you guys enjoy anyways <3


	7. chapter seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one could get close enough to hurt him. Simon liked it that way. It was simple, easy. Less painful. It meant he’d never had a best friend, or a girlfriend or a boyfriend or anyone who really loved him- but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need love to survive. He needed safety.

“ _ Two hands digging in each other’s wounds.” _

— Elena Tonra

When Baz woke up, the sunlight was filtering through the blinds, and his mum was standing over his bed- hands on her hips.  _ Fuck _ . That was his first thought that morning. He groaned, rolling over, away from her- it was equal parts a desire to keep sleeping, and a will to hide his injuries from her, but judging by the look on her face- she’d already seen them. 

“ _ What  _ were you  _ thinking _ ?” Natasha admonished, and Baz rolled over again, guilt eating a painful hole in his gut. “Getting into a fight? And on  _ school grounds _ , no less.” He didn’t want to say sorry, because he didn’t like to lie to his mother and really, he wasn’t sorry. With him and Simon, it had been a long time coming. 

“I’m sorry about the school grounds part.” He said, voice still rough from sleep. 

“And the rest of it?” Natasha crossed her arms over her chest, and stared down Baz, who sat up in his bed. He really hated lying to his mother, so he just shrugged. 

“I told you it was a bad idea.” 

His mother sighed, and buried her face in her hands for a moment. She was never anything less than perfectly composed, so seeing her distress was a decidedly odd feeling for Baz. “You can’t be getting into fights, Basilton.”

“It was only one fight.” He looked across the room, and found Simon’s bed empty. “Did he tell you?” 

“He didn’t have to,” Natasha said, her head snapping up, crossing her arms again- back to a more composed, fierce expression. “It was obvious.” 

“How?” 

“Because you were both covered in bruises!” 

“You have a point.” He conceded. 

“And the school called.” She added. “You’re both suspended.” 

“What?!” Baz’s mind was immediately racing to how that would change his likelihood of being accepted into a good university. “But it was outside of school hours!” 

“And on school property.” 

He hated when his mum was right, which was nearly always. He’d never really done anything to be on the receiving end of her anger, not since he was a little kid. He didn’t like it. He always wanted to be the perfect son- that’s why he worked so hard to keep his grades up, to practice his violin every night. Her disappointment in turned to shame, turned to a bitter taste in his mouth he knew he wouldn’t be able to get out, turned into a self-loathing for being so incredibly stupid.

“How do I fix it?” Baz asked, and his mum shook her head. 

“You don’t.” 

…

Surprisingly enough, Simon had never been suspended before. There’d been a few months when he was threatened for truancy, in a particularly bad home- but that was because the bruises were so bad he couldn’t go to school without an uproar. Natasha hadn’t really known what to say to him, because he wasn’t her child to discipline, but she was obviously pissed that he’d beaten the living hell out of her son. 

(To be fair, her son had beaten the living hell out of him, too- which was unexpected.) 

What really mattered was that Simon didn’t have any sort of punishment, and it was a weekend so he could pretend the suspension didn’t exist until Monday rolled around. He and Baz would both be trapped at the house that day- which didn’t make all that much sense to Simon. How was a suspension supposed to be a punishment? Didn’t kids  _ want  _ to miss school?

He actually didn’t mind school that much, other than the people. Science was interesting, but the rest of the classes were a headache. It was mostly his peers that kept him from enjoying school- they were all so annoying and sure of themselves, sure that they were better than everyone around them. He supposed he was a hypocrite, because he thought he was better than them, in some ways. Less superficial. He was meaner, but being mean wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It was just another tool to keep himself safe. 

Being an asshole meant that generally, everyone left him alone. No one could get close enough to hurt him. Simon liked it that way. It was simple, easy. Less painful. It meant he’d never had a best friend, or a girlfriend or a boyfriend or anyone who really loved him- but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need love to survive. He needed safety. 

There was a part of him that craved it, though. Craved love- emotionally and physically. He’d never experienced kind words or tender touches- at least not ones he actually  _ wanted _ . The last psychiatrist he saw, right before the Salsbury’s adopted him- said it was normal. 

“Survivors of abuse generally crave affection,” He explained. “Because they’ve never had physical touch that isn’t painful. Do you ever experience those feelings, Simon?” 

“No.” It was a lie. Every time someone rested their hand on his shoulder, or brushed against him in the hallway, it felt like a relief. It felt warm, and he always wanted more than a millisecond of contact, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. And he wasn’t even a beggar. That’s what he always told himself when he thought about being touched- he didn’t need it. 

Well, not always. The other times he thought about being touched, he thought about how he really,  _ really  _ hadn’t asked for it. He hadn’t even been old enough to understand, or  _ want  _ to be touched in that way. His psychiatrist had told him something else: 

“Sometimes, when memories are too painful for us to carry, we forget them- but they’re still buried in our subconscious.” He said, turning a pen over in his hands. “Sometimes the repressed memories get dragged back out, in mediation, or dreams.” 

“What are you saying?” Simon felt his pulse jump in his chest, and he tried to calm his breathing. In and out, slow, smooth. He counted to four as he inhaled, held it for another four seconds, and then exhaled again, even slower than before. 

“Your foster parents said you were having nightmares,” The man said. “And I did some research into some of your previous homes, as I do with all my patients. Did you know that Frederick Smith has been charged for sexual abuse of children?” 

Simon vaguely recognized the name, hazy memories attached to a run-down yellow house and a sallow old man. He felt a sick lurch of dread in his stomach. “No.” He managed, and tried to breathe again. Inhale, hold it, exhale “I didn’t know about that.” 

“And you were there for how long, two years?” He already knew- the question didn’t mean anything. Simon nodded. “You must’ve been pretty young, then.” 

“I was six.” His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth. “I don’t remember much.” 

The psychiatrist nodded. “Do you think your nightmares have anything to do with what I just told you?” 

Simon shook his head- he said he didn’t know. He was lying to the psychiatrist, but he was lying to himself, too- and it felt like a stone in his stomach. 

….

At dinner, Natasha made Simon and Baz sit next to each other. It was actually a decent idea, because  _ this way _ , Baz thought,  _ at least we can’t kick each other under the table _ . But at the same time, they could elbow each other- it just wouldn’t be as subtle. His mum watched them like a hawk, and halfway through announced: “You’re both grounded until you work out your conflict.” 

Baz just shrugged. It wasn’t like he did anything on the weekends, anyways. It would suck, not being able to study at his favorite coffee shop, but he could deal with it. Simon, on the other hand- was aghast. Baz wasn’t sure why- Simon didn’t seem to do anything on the weekends  _ either. _

“Wha-” Simon started, but Natasha interrupted him.

“Which means you two are on your own.” His mum said. “I’m not cleaning up after you, I’m not doing your laundry, I’m not cooking for you, I’m not buying your groceries, I’m not letting you drive my car until you two can at least  _ pretend  _ to be civil.” 

That wasn’t what Baz had thought she meant by “grounded.” He assumed she meant they couldn’t leave the house or watch TV. That was what being grounded had meant when he was younger- but then again, he hadn’t been grounded since he was twelve and accidentally broke a widow with a snowball that turned out to be more ice than snow. At this, Simon seemed a lot less distressed. Baz on the other hand- didn’t like it. 

“How are we supposed to  _ get  _ anywhere?” 

“You know,” Mordelia piped in. “We have these things called feet, and these other things called  _ bicycles _ .” 

“I haven’t rode a bike since I was fifteen.” Baz said, glowering at his little sister. Simon had relaxed back into his usual expression of measured boredom- seemingly unconcerned by all this. 

“Exactly.” Mordelia said. “Now you’re just like me.” 

“Whatever.” Baz said, rolling his eyes. At least he was allowed to leave the house, even if he realized that now, he’d probably be leaving the house to go grocery shopping. He snuck a glance at Simon, who was digging into his spaghetti like this entire conversation had never happened. Like he was completely fine with this truce his mother had forced them into. Baz scowled at him. This was going to be a long weekend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo basically @ the simon backstory. yikes.. my friend from my old school is a survivor of sexual assault and she was the one who sort of convinced me to give simon this back story? because she said that stories like hers aren't told enough- even if it's just fanfiction. anyways, she basically talked a lot about being in foster care and stuff that happened to her, and gave me permission to write it. sorry if this story is getting A Little Dark.


	8. chapter eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon looked up, his blue eyes catching on Baz’s gray ones. Their legs had drifted towards each other as Simon read, knees pressed together through thin fabric. The other boy said something, but he didn’t hear it. Baz swallowed- suddenly losing his train of thought. “What?”

“ _ There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” _

—William Shakespeare

Natasha failed to mention to the boys that they were meant to do everything together- and only told Baz once he’d gone grocery shopping and cooked a full meal for himself. 

“Did Simon help?” She asked, and Baz scoffed, shaking his head. 

“Why would he?” 

“You two are supposed to be working  _ together _ ,” His mum argued. “You can’t eat that.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because.” Natasha said. “He didn’t help. You two are supposed to be getting over whatever this conflict is, and you can’t do that by ignoring each other and hissing like tom cats.” And with that, she took his pesto pasta and gave it to Mordelia. 

The problem with their Mum was her intelligence- she always came up with the most uncomfortable punishment- which meant Baz and Mordelia learned their lesson, but  _ still. _ He didn’t want to do anything with Simon, let alone cook dinner like they were domestic husbands. He frowned at his Mum’s retreating back, and flopped down on the living room couch a few minutes later. 

Simon emerged from their bedroom with messy hair and wrinkled clothing- probably napping again. Baz assumed it was because he lost so much sleep over his nightmares, but he didn’t ask. It felt too close to pushing a boundary. He did however, allow his lip to curl up into a sneer when he saw the other boy.  

“We’re supposed to work together.” Baz said, unhappily. Either it didn’t register with Simon, or he didn’t care, because he just rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat down at the far end of the couch. “On everything.” He added. 

Simon raised one eyebrow. “I’m stuck with your barmy ass?” 

Baz scowled. “Yeah, half-wit.” 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Simon groaned, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. “This is the worst.” 

“No shit, Sherlock.” Apparently Natasha could hear them from wherever she was in the house, because a shrill call of ‘ _ Language! _ ’ tore down the hallway. Baz glowered at the ceiling. Simon snatched a pen from the coffee table and started tapping it against his teeth. They were both bored, and unwilling to cooperate. At least ten minutes passed that way, the tap, tap, tap of Simon’s pen- and Baz’s stony expression. 

“Whatever.” Simon said, finally. “If I’m stuck with you we might as well do something useful.” 

Baz straightened from his slouching position on the couch. “Like what?” 

“You’re good at humanities, yeah?” Baz nodded. Simon sighed. “I’m awful and we’re supposed to analyze some weird poem. We should work on it together.” 

He bristled. “You’re just trying to get me to do it because you can’t do it yourself.” 

“I could do it myself,” Simon argued. “It would just take longer- plus, your mum said we’re supposed to work together, right?” 

Baz frowned, but he knew the other boy was right. It was odd to see Simon being so civil, even if it was just because of Natasha’s wrath. “Fine.” He conceded. “But you have to read it, and I’ll analyze.” He liked analyzing, even if it was the harder part. 

Simon rose from the couch to go get his backpack, and came back with a pile of handouts from their english class, shuffling around until he found the one he was looking for. He didn’t bother to scrunch himself up in a corner this time, instead he sprawled- all long limbs and languid grace. They were both sitting on the couch at opposite ends, legs stretched out- but not touching. Simon started to read. 

“ _ I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful ‚” _

Baz watched as Simon read, and for the first time, he noticed (objectively, of course) that Simon was attractive. A curl of red-gold hair fell in his face, and Baz looked at the freckles on his cheeks. 

_ “-I have looked at it so long, I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over,” _

The other boy kept reading, and Baz almost lost track of what he was saying as he just looked, drinking in the fine angles of Simon’s face and hands, despite the bruises marring his skin. He really  _ was _ beautiful, and his voice was soft, gentle as he poured out poetry. So different from the way he spat insults, like acid was coating his tongue...

“- _ Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman, Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.” _

Simon looked up, his blue eyes catching on Baz’s gray ones. Their legs had drifted towards each other as Simon read, knees pressed together through thin fabric. The other boy said something, but he didn’t hear it. Baz swallowed- suddenly losing his train of thought. “What?” 

“Do you want me to read it again?” Simon looked at Baz suspiciously. “Your eyes sort of glazed over- were you paying any attention at all?” 

“I was listening.” Baz snapped, rolling his eyes. “But yeah, read it again.” 

Simon read it again. This time Baz was more prepared to analyze, to be an intellectual instead of a teenage boy with raging hormones.  “I think it’s from the point of view of a mirror..” He said, finally. “And it’s about this woman being sad because she’s aging?” 

Simon nodded. “I mean, the poem  _ is  _ called ‘ _ mirror _ .’ It’d make sense.” 

“And it could be about self reflection, too?” Baz said. “With all that talk about darkness. Maybe it’s figurative darkness, the darkness of the heart.” 

The other boy rolled his eyes. “That interpretation is pretentious as fuck.” 

“It’s poetry.” Baz argued, and even though he enjoyed poetry, a lot of the time it  _ was  _ pretentious. He kind of enjoyed being pretentious, sometimes. 

“Whatever.” Simon rolled his eyes, but Baz saw him write it down on their worksheet. 

….

They made a deal. Simon would do the laundry, and Baz would make the food, and if Natasha had a problem with it- they’d eat the food anyways. He knew he made good sandwiches, and good pasta. Once with Mordelia, he’d made chicken with a coconut and cilantro sauce- but Baz couldn’t make breakfast. He always ended up burning the toast, or the pancakes, or the eggs, or whatever else he tried to make. 

That was why it surprised Baz to wake up and smell breakfast cooking. Something buttery and sweet. The room was dark, and he rolled over in his bed, groping for his phone to check the time.  _ 2:31 AM. _ He pulled up the flashlight function, and pointed it towards the opposite side of the room. Simon’s bed was empty. 

At this point, he’d gotten used to the other boy’s nightmares. If whimpers and words couldn’t wake him up anymore, it made sense that someone slipping out of bed wouldn’t jostle him from sleep. Baz rolled out of bed, and stalked towards the kitchen- habitually glowering. He hated being woken up. 

He found Simon standing over the stove, wearing nothing but a pair of ratty boxers with stars printed on them. Butter was sizzling in the pan beneath his hands, and it smelled delicious. Baz leaned against the counter, waiting for the other boy to notice him- it took a minute, but when he did, Simon nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“Jesus Christ, Baz!” He nearly burnt his hand on the pan, dropping the spatula and then picking it up again. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“I could say the same thing to you,” Baz shot back. “It’s two in the morning.” 

“I was hungry.” Simon defended, turning his back on the dark haired boy to tend to his pancakes. It was obvious from the set of his shoulders that he was scowling down at the pan- and a part of Baz wanted to rile him up again. Nothing else seemed to be as satisfying, and really- he owed Simon one, considering all the shit he’d pulled since he moved to hampshire. But there were still bruises on his face, and on his chest. So instead of pissing the other boy off, he sat down at the breakfast bar, resting his chin on the smooth granite. 

“I didn’t know you could cook.” Baz said, because if he couldn’t bother Simon, he was going to have a conversation. Sitting there, not talking, not eating- was extremely boring. 

“I can’t.” Simon said. “This is the only thing I know how to make.”

“Out of all the things in the world, all the foods you could have learned to make,” Baz said. “Why would you choose  _ pancakes _ ?” 

Simon bristled, unexpectedly. “I  _ didn’t  _ choose, dipshit. Foster homes don’t exactly have many options.” Now he was  _ really  _ scowling at the pan, but he poured more batter onto the hot surface. “My parent sucked. It was pancakes or the dead cockroaches behind the freezer.” 

“Shit.” Baz said- and a pang of guilt found home in his chest. “I forgot.” 

“Yeah, I figured.” Simon’s voice was bitter- but this was the most vulnerability the other boy had given Baz willingly. The nightmares didn’t count- it was Simon’s subconscious, and he couldn’t control what he dreamt about, or the fact that Baz could hear his sleep talking. It was vulnerability, but not the given kind. It was forced, and uncomfortable, and it made Baz feel almost as guilty as his comment before. 

Even if Simon was reprimanding Baz for being an insensitive ass, he was still sharing a piece of himself. In retrospect, he really didn’t know much about the other boy. He mentally compiled a list as Simon continued to flip pancakes and pour more batter into the pan. 

_ I know he went through the foster system.  _ Butter sizzled in the pan, and Simon used the spatula to flip the pancake.

_ I know he’s adopted.  _ He transferred the pancake directly onto a plate- with enough other pancakes that it was turning into a stack.

_ I know he smokes.  _ Simon poured more batter in the pan. 

_ I know something horrible happened to him and now he dreams about it every night.  _ He stood with his back to Baz, waiting for the pancake to cook, all freckles and moles and bronze hair. 

_ I know he’s beautiful.  _ He flipped the pancake again.

_ And I know he hates me.  _ Simon put the pancake on a plate, and turned around, passing it to Baz. 

“Try it.” He said. “Tell me if they’re complete shit.”

The pancakes weren’t shit. They were actually delicious with maple syrup and butter and the tentative connection growing in the kitchen. When Simon silently passed him another pancake, Baz almost smiled. Instead, he drowned it with maple syrup. 

….

In the morning, the kitchen was a mess, and Natasha made them clean it together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem in this chapter is mirror by sylvia plath


	9. chapter nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t fully understand why he was drawn to Baz, or why it always turned out so violent- but he knew it wasn’t nothing. Whatever stirred inside him when he looked at the other boy was a starving beast- fighting was the only way he knew how to feed it.

“ _ You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart. _ ”

—Franz Kafka

The Tuesday they went back to school, the Dean called Simon and Baz to his office. In the middle of maths class, the announcement crackled over the PA system, and all the heads in the class turned to Simon. Baz wasn’t in that class with him- but people were whispering as if he were. “It serves them right,” someone snickered. “They’ve been going at it for  _ weeks _ .” he felt anger boiling up inside him, even if the other students were right- he didn’t like people sticking their noses where they weren’t invited. 

So he counted to four, breathing in, and counted to four again- breathing out. Then he excited the classroom, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He had a suspicion he wouldn’t be back for the end of the period. When he got up to the office, he saw Baz was already there, and so was his mum. They sat together on one side of the desk, with the dean on the other. He tried to keep his face impassive as he sat down, even though anxiety was twisting in his gut. 

The dean cleared his throat, and looked to Natasha. “I hope you know that we take bullying very seriously here.” 

Baz looked uncomfortable as the dean spoke, and Natasha looked concerned. “Is this a common occurrence?”

“They’ve had multiple fights- not all of them physical, but they’re still a problem.

“Multiple?” The dean nodded at Natasha- and Simon wondered why they were here if he was only talking to Mrs. Pitch. As if by thinking about it, the dean looked at Simon.

“You have low grades,” The dean said. “You’re apathetic, cut off from others.” Simon tensed up at the accusation, but didn’t say anything. “Why do you always fight?” 

Baz cut in. “We don’t get along.” 

“That’s not a good enough reason.” The dean said. “There’s more.” 

Simon shrugged. “There isn’t.” He knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t fully understand why he was drawn to Baz, or why it always turned out so violent- but he knew it wasn’t nothing. Whatever stirred inside him when he looked at the other boy was a starving beast- fighting was the only way he knew how to feed it.

Baz spoke up again. “We’re trying not to fight so much, but it’s hard when we’re living together. Tensions boil over, things get heated.” He looked at Natasha. “But Mum came up with a plan to make us get along, and so far it’s working.” 

Simon nodded, reluctantly. It was true- Natasha had forced them together, and now Simon couldn’t ignore Baz. He just had to make the best out of the situation, which meant tolerating him with as much kindness as he could muster. It still made him feel strange, to interact without violent words or actions. It felt like Simon was giving up a piece of himself, and letting Baz take it. He wasn’t sure if he liked that or not. 

The dean watched the two boys with narrowed eyes, searching for the lies on their faces. Simon fought not to scowl at the man. He hated authority figures. A long minute crawled by, and finally, the man waved his hand at the boys. It was a dismissive gesture. 

“I need to talk to Mrs. Pitch for a few more minutes. You boys can get back to class.” 

As soon as they were out in the hall, Simon let out a long breath- shoulders slumping, expression unguarded. It wasn’t worth it to pretend around Baz, not anymore. It took up too much energy, and he’d already seen the worst of the worst- the nightmares and instinctual flinching- so it didn’t matter. It was a begrudging kind of trust- but it was still trust. Simon couldn’t believe he was giving it away for free, but he couldn’t stop himself, either. It was too late to turn back. 

“Are you okay?” Baz asked, a hand hovering awkwardly over Simon’s shoulder- like he wanted to comfort Simon, but he didn’t know how. 

Simon shrugged. He was okay- he just hated having to play nice for adults. It made him feel powerless, and belittled. Like he was a toddler being scolded for accidentally breaking something. He also felt shitty about what the dean had said-  _ low grades, apathetic, cut off from others…  _ Even if it was true, it still stung. 

“Just tired.” Simon said.

Baz looked like he didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push the other boy. “Do you want to go outside for a minute?” 

“Wow,” Simon said. “The noble Baz Pitch, suggesting we skip class.” 

The other boy rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, Snow-” And Simon almost had to fight back a smile. 

….

They ended up on the far side of the school building, and as Baz predicted, Simon pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket and lit up. The two boys stood in silence, leaning against the rough brick- Simon smoking, and Baz just watching. Minutes passed in that comfortable silence, until on instinct, Baz held out his hand- a gesture for Simon to pass the cigarette over. 

He raised an eyebrow at Baz, but obediently passed the cigarette to the other boy.“I thought you didn’t smoke.”  Baz held it awkwardly between his fingers, unsure what to do next.

“I don’t.” Baz said, but he took a drag anyways- and coughed at the chemical smoke, his eyes immediately watering. 

Simon’s lips twitched up at the corners- an almost smile. “I can see that.” 

Baz took another drag, but it was almost worse. He coughed again “ _ Fuck, _ Snow! How do you enjoy these things?” 

Simon shrugged. 

“You didn’t answer the question.” Baz ignored Simon’s non-answer, and attempted a third drag- this time he didn’t cough, but his eyes still watered as hot smoke filled his lungs. He exhaled a long breath of smoke, and Simon looked mildly impressed. 

Finally, Simon said “I like it.” 

“Weird.” Baz muttered, but they passed the cigarette back and forth until a bell rang somewhere inside the school, their call to return to class. 

….

School was still a chore, but since Simon made pancakes, nearly a week ago now- things were easier with Baz. They weren’t fighting- at least not  _ real  _ fighting, but they bickered plenty. Arguing over what movie they should watch, what they should cook for dinner, whether or not the poem  _ Tyger  _ was a christian metaphor… they were in the middle of a poetry unit for english class. (Baz generally won all those arguments.) 

The arguments were a relief for Simon, because for some reason, he still felt a tension when he looked at Baz. He didn’t know what it meant- but arguing was the closest to fighting, and fighting was the only way he knew how to make it go away for five minutes. It itched under his skin like a rash, or like a fever he couldn’t sweat out. He tried not think about it, but it kept coming back- an urge to touch Baz, even if touching meant hitting and kicking. 

Simon grimaced at his homework- he was sitting at the table in the kitchen, trying to solve a geometry problem while Baz played violin somewhere out of sight. The melody was distracting, and every time the music stopped, Simon looked up, waiting for it to start again. He sat there for ten minutes- and didn’t get a single problem done. 

Eventually, Simon just got up from his seat at the table and stalked off to find Baz- who was still playing some melancholy song on his violin. He found the other boy in the living room, back to the door. Simon wished he had something he could throw at Baz, but a pen seemed too aggressive, and a pillow might knock the violin out of his hands. He was annoyed with the other boy- even if it wasn’t really Baz’s fault that he couldn’t concentrate. 

“Would you stop making such a racket?” Simon crossed his arms as Baz turned around. “I’m trying to do my homework.” 

Baz frowned, a furrow appearing between his brow- but he apologized anyways. “Sorry. I just have a recital soon and I need to practice…” 

Simon didn’t think Baz played the violin for any reason but pleasure, so it was a surprise to hear him say that. “Oh.” Simon said, and now he felt guilty. “Sorry.” He looked at his feet so he didn’t have to look at Baz’s face. “You should just keep playing, if you need to practice.”

“You were doing your homework though, right?” 

Simon looked up at the other boy, nodding slowly. “I was just distracted, you kept starting and stopping. I couldn’t concentrate.” 

Baz smiled crookedly, not so much at Simon but at what he’d said. “I was trying to learn a new piece, but I should probably be practicing the older ones. I can play them without stopping most of the time.” 

Simon nodded again. He didn’t know anything about violin, didn’t know anything about music. He didn’t even listen to music really, he’d never had the time or the resources when he was in care. Now, it seemed like more important things mattered. “I’m going to go do my homework.” Simon said, and left the room. 

He sat at the kitchen table again, and waited for Baz to start playing. It took a few minutes, but then a thin, high melody began a few rooms over, and Simon could relax. As he did his geometry homework- he thought about how he’d never had time to really listen, to really appreciate anything like this.  It was a shame- music was beautiful. The way Baz  _ played  _ was beautiful. It felt almost disrespectful to do anything but listen fully and completely to the music pouring from the living room, so he set down his pen- and didn’t pick it up.

Lying in bed that night, the ghost of a violin echoing in his ears, Simon thought that maybe, he really, really loved music. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more of our faves learning to be civil!! hope i'm not moving their begrudging friendship too fast


	10. chapter ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a place in his chest that hurt to see Simon like this, and in that moment, a part of Baz wanted to crawl inside Simon. To find where he was most ruined and try to put it all back together.

“ _ The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant.” _

— Salvador Dali 

Things had changed, at least for the most part, when Simon and Baz were at home- but they still teased each other at school. It felt like it was turning into a show, or a private joke- not the casual animosity that used to crackle between them. No one seemed to notice the twitch at the corner of Baz’s mouth when he called Simon a moron, or that Simon had stopped tripping Baz in class. 

Penelope had started frequenting Simon’s table more and more often during their lunch break, which was an unexpected surprise. He didn’t really know how he felt about it- because she could be good company. Funny, smart, interesting- but nosy. She wanted to know why he moved in with Baz, why they weren’t fighting anymore, if they were friends or not- it was exhausting. 

“Why do you care?” He asked one day, scowling down at a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar crisps that Baz had demolished the night before. “It’s not like you’re directly involved.” 

“I  _ am  _ involved,” Penelope argued. “I broke up your fight.” 

“Yeah, but you chose to involve yourself.” 

“If I didn’t, who would?” 

“The dean,” Simon suggested. “Another student. Baz’s mum.”

She just rolled her eyes at him, like he was missing her entire point. “I care because I don’t want either of you to get hurt.” It wasn’t what he’d been expecting, and he frowned immediately- trying to puzzle it over. Penelope sighed at his reaction. “You know I care about you, right?” 

“No.” Simon said. 

“I’ve been trying to make friendly conversation with you for the past four months while you scowled at a table, Simon.” When she put it that way- it was glaringly obvious to him that on some level, Penelope had been here for him the whole time, and he’d never noticed. She was the only one who sat next to him without flinching. The only one who called him Simon- even Baz just called him Snow. 

“Sorry.” Simon said- he couldn’t articulate the realization that she was his friend out loud. He’d never been good with words, or language. Instead of trying to explain, he just elbowed her, gently. A gesture to explain ‘ _ I’m here’  _ and  _ ‘I understand _ ’ and even ‘ _ Thank you. _ ’

Penelope smiled at him. Simon tried to smile back. 

….

When Baz woke up, someone was screaming- not crying, not whimpering- but  _ screaming.  _ Horror movie screams that made his hair stand on end, that made him jump to flip on the light- just as Simon rocketed up out of bed, screams turning to sobs that tore from his throat like jagged wounds. He couldn’t stand the sound of it. 

He could hear his mum’s footsteps in the hallway- she probably assumed the absolute worst considering the way the two boys had fought. Baz knew Simon wouldn’t want her to see him like this, so he slipped from the room, stopping her before she could get too far. 

“He has nightmares.” Baz told his mother, before she could say anything, before she could demand to see Simon. “He’ll be okay, just give him time to calm down.” 

“Nightmares, Basilton?” Natasha looked like someone had slapped her. “These are  _ nightmares _ ? I thought someone was getting murdered.” She shook her head. “What in gods name is that boy dreaming about?” 

“I don’t know.” Baz admitted. “He won’t talk about them, but he’s restless at night. He has horrible dreams.” 

“What happened to him?” She asked- but Baz couldn’t give her that answer. 

“I don’t know.” 

….

“Simon?” Baz watched the other boy, who was still trying to control his breathing. He looked like he was soundlessly counting as he inhaled and exhaled. “Are you okay?” 

“Does it-” Simon took a shuddering breath of air, somehow still managing to sound venomous, even as he was hyperventilating. “-Look like I’m okay?” He answered for himself. “No, Pitch-” Another ragged breath. “I’m not okay.” 

“What happened?” Baz asked, sitting on the floor next to his bed, opposite from Simon. 

“I don’t even know if it’s real,” He said. “I don’t even-” He stopped to cover his mouth and heave in another breath, looking like he was about to vomit. 

“It’s a dream,” Baz said. “Of course it’s not real.” 

“I know it’s a dream, you idiot,” Simon snapped. “I just don’t know if it’s a  _ memory _ .” 

“What?” Baz didn’t understand anything. His brain scrambled ineffectually for answers, but came up empty, and it didn’t help that Simon was talking so fast that he could barely understand what the other boy was saying.

“-Half of my fucking memories have been repressed because apparently my childhood was too traumatic to remember.” Simon spat. “And now they all come back as dreams so I can relive them. Isn’t that  _ bloody _ fantastic.” He was livid, blue eyes bright with pain or anger or whatever else lived inside him. Baz could tell that he was in too much pain, too much panic- to really be thinking properly. Simon would never tell him these sorts of things- but it hurt.

There was a place in his chest that hurt to see Simon like this, and in that moment, a part of Baz wanted to crawl inside Simon. To find where he was most ruined and try to put it all back together. Simon stood from where he was sitting, limbs shaking, and promptly punched the wall. The skin on his knuckles broke- and Baz swore. 

“Simon-” 

“I need to get out of here.” He said, interrupting Baz. “I’m taking the car.” 

“My Mum-” 

“-Won’t mind as long as you’re with me.” Simon was regaining some semblance of composure, but his breath was still too short, and his eyes were still too wild. “She thinks you’re a fucking saint. Come on.” He said, grabbing Baz’s arm before he could argue. “We’re going for a drive.” 

….

Baz didn’t know where they were going, but Simon certainly seemed to. He kept on telling Baz to turn down increasingly narrow country roads until they pulled into a gravel parking lot, and Simon jumped out before the car had even stopped moving. He wasn’t even wearing shoes. Just a ratty t-shirt and a pair of black boxers- in the aftermath of the nightmare, neither of them had thought to put on warmer clothes. Baz was still in his pajamas, too- and it was winter. 

“Snow,” Baz called- rolling down the window and yelling out the car. “What fuck do you think you’re doing?” Simon was illuminated in the glare of the headlights, and it was only when he pulled his shirt over his head that Baz realized his intentions. There was a lake, so black in the night that Baz hadn’t even noticed it at first. “It’s too cold to go swimming, you moron.” 

But Simon didn’t listen- he just left his clothing in a crumpled pile and made for the water like his life depended on it.  _ He didn’t even keep his boxers. _ Baz thought.  _ He’s going to freeze to death.  _

….

The water was frigid, and as soon as Simon submerged himself- he went numb. It was exactly what he wanted- the arctic chill of the water drowned out the thoughts in his head so all he could feel was the cold, icing over his hands and feet. When he came up for air, gasping in as the water pressed in on his lungs- he felt the water in his hair turning to ice. He could barely swim- let alone think. 

It was a relief. 

He kept going until he couldn’t move his hands at all, until the best he could do was drag himself out of the water and back to the car- still dripping wet. Still naked. Baz refused to look at Simon, staring straight ahead, out the windshield as he threw a pile of clothing at Simon. It was his boxers and his shirt- Baz must’ve picked them up from where Simon left them. 

“Thanks.” Simon managed, he could barely talk. His voice came out soft and slurred, but Baz didn’t say anything, just cranked up the heater and pulled out of the parking lot. He couldn't feel his hands, and it was nearly impossible to buckle his seatbelt  _ and  _ get the jumper Baz threw at him over his head. They didn’t talk on the drive home, and that was when he started shaking- uncontrollably. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up on i'll forget seventeen: hypothermia


	11. chapter eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m supposed to get you out of the cold. I got that one. I’m supposed to get you out of your wet clothes.. There were none. I’m supposed to feed you hot drinks,” Simon realized Baz was reading on how to treat him- there were a few more directions on the list, at the last one- Baz frowned. “And… Body heat.”

“ _Your body is rebelling. Pain is your body’s way of protesting. Hell isn’t others. It’s ourselves. Hell is the burning fever that makes you feel cold_.”

—Elie Wiesel

“I think I have hypothermia,” Simon said- his voice slow and tired, despite his teeth chattering. “That’s what it’s called when you’re dying of cold, right? I’m so fucking cold”

“You don’t have hypothermia.” Baz said- but watching the way Simon shivered, and the dangerous shade of purple his fingers had turned… Baz wasn’t so sure. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and googled ‘ _symptoms of hypothermia_.’ “I’m getting you some tea.”

 

  * _Trouble speaking_



 

As Baz walked to the kitchen, he scrolled through the medical website, reading up on all the symptoms.

 

  * _Shivering_


  * _Low body temperatures_



 

Simon was showing those two, plus, he kept on saying he was cold.

 

  * _Fatigue_


  * _Slight confusion_



 

After reading the entire website, Baz concluded that Simon was a textbook case for mild to moderate hypothermia. _Oh god._ Baz thought. _How am I supposed to take care of him?_ He didn’t want to wake his mum up- first of all, because she’d be pissed at both of them, and second of all- he knew Simon wouldn’t like it. The other boy always seemed on edge around adults, and Baz had no doubt that if Natasha covered Simon in hot water bottles, he’d probably flip shit.

By the time he’d finished making the tea (with cream and sugar, because Simon had a secret sweet tooth) Baz was properly panicked. The websites said that if he’d stayed in the water for more than fifteen minutes, in this weather, Simon would have died. They would’ve had to pull his bloated body out of the water the next morning. They would’ve had to organize a funeral. Baz wondered if anyone Simon had really loved would show up. And then he wondered if Simon had let his walls down for long enough to love anyone at all.

….

Simon drank the tea, but it didn’t do much to warm him up. He still felt like a living ice sculpture- and after fifteen minutes of Baz pacing and worrying and and trying to cover him in more blankets, nothing had changed.

“Why don’t you just google how to treat it?” Simon asked. “Acting like an overprotective mum isn’t making me any warmer.”

“You could’ve died.” Baz didn’t take the bait of Simon’s teasing. “Seriously, _died_ , Simon.”

“That’s sort of the point, isn’t it?” Simon said, suddenly irritable. Baz stopped dead in his tracks.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Simon muttered. “Just stop talking.”

“Are you telling me you were _trying_ to kill yourself?”

“No,” Simon said. “No, God Baz, I don’t know. Just leave me alone.”

“You nearly died.” Baz said. “I’m not leaving you by yourself.” And then he pulled out his phone and typed something in, and Simon watched the way the screen lit his face in a blue light. “It says..” Baz started. “I’m supposed to get you out of the cold. I got that one. I’m supposed to get you out of your wet clothes.. There were none. I’m supposed to feed you hot drinks,” Simon realized Baz was reading on how to treat him- there were a few more directions on the list, at the last one- Baz frowned. “And… Body heat.”

“What?” Simon said, and reached for the phone. “Let me see that.” He scanned the website. _To share body heat, remove your clothing and lie next to the person, making skin to skin contact. Then cover both of your bodies with blankets._ He frowned at Baz’s phone. “That can’t be right.”

Baz took back his phone, looking as distressed as Simon. “I don’t know, it sort of makes sense.”

“Why can't I just take a bath?”

“It said that hot water could be too much of a shock, and it’ll make your heart rate speed up,” Baz was back to looking down at his phone. “which isn't good in this condition. it could lead to a heart attack. Body heat is supposed to be…” He trailed off, paying more attention to whatever he was reading. “Gentler.”

Simon didn't know what to say. There was a part of him that felt sick thinking about someone else touching his bare skin- but he was so cold. He thought he’d do almost anything to make the cold go away, to stop feeling like there were shards of ice in his lungs. He opened his mouth- and then abruptly shut it before blurting out a strangled “ _No.”_ He hated that he sounded almost like he did in his nightmares. Like a frightened child.

Baz narrowed his eyes. “Your pride will kill you.”

Simon sighed, repressing the urge to roll his eyes, even as his breath rattled in his chest, even as his hands stayed numb and his fingers stayed purple. Baz was right but he didn’t want to admit to it, he didn’t want to take off the giant jumper he was wearing, or his joggers. He didn’t want to press close to the other boy and feel the rhythm of his breath. He didn’t want to grow warm and drowsy with someone else’s arm slung over his ribcage.

“Look, Snow,” Baz said, with his business voice- the kind that commanded small children and rats to _get up, get up, follow me!_ “You’re literally dying, and if there was a better option in this situation, I’d take it- but there isn’t. I’m not letting you risk your physical health over your pride.” Simon scowled at him, but Baz kept talking. “Do you want your fingers to freeze off? No,” Baz answered for him. “So give me your hand.”

Simon extended his hand like he was giving Baz a bomb, and tried not to react when they other boy laced their fingers together. If he could feel his hands, he was sure he’d be focusing on the heat of their skin, palm against palm, fingers pressed into wrist bone. But he couldn’t feel a thing. Just the cold. He was aware of the weight of Baz’s hand- but he couldn’t really feel it. His eyes told him it was there, but his body didn’t even notice. Simon shivered.

“You’re freezing.” Baz whispered- formal voice gone, suddenly soft like he’d discovered a life-changing secret.

“That’s kind of the point.” Simon said- and then Baz was scowling, too.

“Just take off your clothes, Snow.” He was muttering under his breath. “I’m about to cuddle with a fucking ice cube.”

They ended up in Baz’s bed, because it had warmer covers, pressed tightly together- skin against skin against skin. They kept their underwear though, to keep the already strange night from growing even more uncomfortable. Simon had almost taken his off, not really thinking about it, but then Baz said. “I’ve seen enough of your pasty ass to last a lifetime-” And he flushed with red-hot shame. He knew Baz was probably trying to make him feel better by teasing- but it just stirred the simmering guilt that lived inside him.

He hadn’t thought much about his nakedness at the lake until then. He’d just wanted to drown in the cold- and losing all his clothing seemed like the best way to do it. He hadn’t thought about how the cross-hatch of scars littering his abdomen and back would be on full display- but crawling into bed with Baz, he suddenly felt insecure. Would the other boy notice the scars? Would he say anything?

It didn’t matter, either Baz didn’t notice or didn’t care. The only thing to indicate any discomfort on his part was a sharp hiss of air between his teeth, when Simon’s cold skin pressed into his. He still felt cold, for awhile, but eventually feeling returned to his fingers, and he flexed them in Baz’s grip. Despite how cold he felt, Simon was exhausted. He fought to keep his eyes open as Baz held his hand and wrapped an arm around his waist. As the cold seeped from his limbs, slowly replaced by a warmth that prickled at his skin like a fire.

He felt almost relaxed, certainly drowsy, and when he tried to crawl over Baz- back to his own bed, he felt strong arms wrapping around his middle and tugging him down again. Back into warmth. Back into security. “Just go the fuck to sleep, Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter literally came about bc i realized simon would probs get hypothermia from going in the water?? and i Did Some Research and it fucking suggested body heat as a way to treat hypothermia i couldn't pass up this opportunity i'm NOT SORRY (also, a lil shorter than normal?? had a big day and didn't have time to write another scene. working at a haunted house is hard. plus, the content makes up for it lol)


	12. chapter twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At home, Baz didn’t see Simon unless they were eating dinner together, or trying to fall asleep. Simon always slept facing the wall, but somehow, it felt more lonesome now. More like he was doing it so he didn’t have to look at Baz, and less like he was doing it because that was how he fell asleep.
> 
> Now, it felt like Simon wouldn’t look at him because he couldn’t stand the sight of Baz anymore.

_ “You run in me, a tang of salt in the creek waters of my blood,  _

_ you sing in my mind like wine.” _

—Marge Piercy

When Simon woke up, he felt the weight of someone else’s arms around him, and in the haze of sleep- he didn’t stop to think about who it was. He just panicked, and shoved the other person out of bed with a loud thump. His breathing quickly turned frantic as he tried to stop, to look at himself. Who was it? Did they touch him? Was he- and then the shapeless lump on the ground let out a loud groan, and Simon remembered. 

Baz.  _ Fuck.  _ He’d just shoved Baz out of bed for no reason. He felt guilt curdling in his stomach as he looked over the edge of the bed to see Baz, his hair a tangled mess, eyes closed as he tried curl up on the floor. The sheets hadn’t gone with him, so the other boy was just wearing a pair of boxers. Simon frowned. 

“Are you okay?” 

“You pushed me,” Baz said, but it sounded rougher than normal. His morning voice. “I don’t know why I try to be nice to you.” 

“I didn’t mean to.” 

“Whatever.” Baz grumbled, and sat up, crawling back into the bed. Simon flinched, instinctively, and Baz frowned at him. 

“Did you have another nightmare?” 

He shook his head. There wasn’t an easy way to explain that someone else in his bed had never been a pleasant experience, although, he supposed  _ he _ was the one in Baz’s bed. Simon didn’t know what to think about that, because on one level, it had just been Baz helping him, making sure he didn’t get sick. On another level, though- he’d allowed himself to stay, long past the point of being a healthy temperature. He’d allowed himself to fall asleep, to relax into the other boy’s arms. 

“I’m going to take a shower.” Simon said, finally. Baz’s expression was complicated, but he just nodded at Simon, and rolled over to go back to bed. Simon had to climb over him to get out, but once he was in the bathroom, he finally let himself think. What was that? What had it meant? Did it even  _ have  _ to mean something? He didn’t know the answers to any of his own questions. 

He turned on the water, and after a few minutes of waiting for it to heat up, he stepped under the warm spray, and tried to stop thinking about Baz for long enough to get himself clean. When he emerged, the sweet scent of drugstore soap clung to his skin, and he got dressed as fast as possible- not daring to look across the room to where Baz was sleeping. 

Simon ended up at the kitchen table, trying to do homework as he ignored the itching sensation under his skin, trying to stop thinking, stop thinking, stop.  _ thinking.  _

….

It took a few days for Baz to realize that Simon was avoiding him- and when he figured it out, he couldn’t decide if it was about what he’d told Baz after the nightmare, or the way they’d slept together. He hadn’t really enjoyed it, at first, because Simon really  _ was _ freezing. His skin was too cold against Baz’s to possibly be pleasant, but after awhile, the other boy grew warm and pliant- instead of the cold tightness he used to hold in his limbs.

Sharing a bed with someone else was nice. Sharing a bed with  _ Simon  _ was nice- until he woke up and shoved Baz onto the floor without a second thought. He supposed that didn’t have anything to do with him, but it still stung. He didn’t know why- it wasn’t like it had meant anything that they stayed like that all night. They were both exhausted, and Simon felt like a living ice sculpture. It was the right thing to do. He was just taking care of Simon. 

So why was he avoiding Baz?

Simon wasn’t acting out against him at school, not even verbally- he just sat on the other side of the classroom and avoided looking at Baz. Simon had never ignored him before, not even when they first met. Gone were the angry words and charged glances, the snarling and smiles that were all teeth. Baz kind of missed it now- that was better than nothing.  _ Anything  _ was better than nothing, when it came to Simon. 

At home, Baz didn’t see Simon unless they were eating dinner together, or trying to fall asleep. Simon always slept facing the wall, but somehow, it felt more lonesome now. More like he was doing it so he didn’t have to look at Baz, and less like he was doing it because that was how he fell asleep. 

Now, it felt like Simon wouldn’t look at him because he couldn’t stand the sight of Baz anymore.  

….

They weren’t doing their homework together, but the poetry unit was dragging on- and Simon’s papers kept coming back to him covered in red marks. It was hard for him to understand them, without Baz to talk him through it. It was only his pride stopping him from asking the other boy for help, and even then, his patience was wearing thin. 

It had been almost three weeks since the nightmare and his bout of hypothermia, and he still couldn’t look Baz in the eye without feeling like he’d been scorched down to the bone. But he couldn’t float his way through english class without Baz’s help- even before they’d started living together, he’d had to sneak glances over the other students shoulders to get his answers- and that was when they were reading novels. He could always listen to an audiobook if he was reading a novel, but poetry? That was harder to find, harder to analyze. 

He was always the one reading it out loud with Baz, which should’ve been hard but… it was easy, somehow, to read it out loud and know that someone else would be analyzing it. That was the hard part, really- Simon never knew where to look for subtext, or theme or mood or whatever else his english teacher was looking for. He knew how to read though, even if he stumbled over his words. 

So instead of stalking off to town after dropping his things off at home, he waited on the living room couch. Baz had an actual violin lesson that afternoon, at the music department in their school. He’d probably be back, soon enough, but waiting for him made Simon antsy as he scanned over the poem they were supposed to analyze. His leg shook, a display of his restless energy- but he ignored it. Soon enough, though, a door banged open somewhere else in the house- and Simon sat up straighter- stilling. 

Baz walked through the living room, eyes glancing over Simon, not really thinking about it- but then he turned like he’d seen a ghost and  _ gaped.  _

Simon didn’t say anything, just narrowed his eyes at Baz. After a few long moments, though, he snapped- “What are you looking at?”- irritable. 

“I haven’t seen you in a few days.” Baz said- which Simon knew, wasn’t quite true. They ate dinner together, and slept in the same room- but they hadn’t really talked. They hadn’t even bickered- whatever grudging acceptance they’d agreed on had been frozen over by icy silence. 

Simon just shrugged in response to Baz’s statement. “I need help with my homework.” It was the truth, untempered by kindness- and he knew it might upset Baz, but he didn’t know if he cared. He didn’t know if he was angry at Baz or himself, either- he thought it might be both. Angry that Baz helped him? Or angry that he’d needed help in the first place? The answer simmered under the surface of his mind, all frenzied heat- but Simon pushed it away. He didn’t want to hear it. 

“Okay,” Baz said, slowly- like he was approaching a wild animal. It sort of pissed Simon off, even though he knew he’d been skittish recently. He wasn’t a fragile, delicate thing that could break at any moment. He was tempered and time worn, battered with wounds beyond his years. Another boy sitting next to him on the couch really wasn’t a violation. He scowled at Baz. 

“Just sit down.” So Baz sat down, and Simon got out the poem they were supposed to read. He was about to start, but Baz nudged him with a foot, interrupting. “What?” 

“Let me read it this time,” Baz said, reaching for the poem before Simon could think to stop him. “you can analyze.” 

“No.” Simon said, trying to come up with a decent argument for why he had to read it. Before he could come up with anything, though, Baz cut in-  _ again.  _

“Come on, Snow, it can’t be  _ that  _ hard.” 

To someone else, it might not have been a challenge- but that’s how Simon saw it. He could never back down from a test, or a trial- so he just frowned at Baz again. Sometimes, he really hated that boy. Really hated the way he looked, and the way he made Simon feel like he was being scorched down to brittle bones with just a glance. He really hated that. “Whatever.” Simon huffed, slumping down on the couch to glare at Baz over his crossed arms. 

Simon saw the other boy repress a smile with the twitch of his lips, as he began to read.  “ _ My mouth blooms like a cut. I've been wronged all year, tedious nights, nothing but rough elbows in them, and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby, crybaby, you fool..” _

God, this poem was going to be something about the infinite sadness of the human mind, wasn’t it? Or something about heartbreak and how love ruins you... Simon rolled his eyes, and made a fake gagging noise as Baz paused between stanzas. 

“ _ Before today my body was useless. Now it's tearing at its square corners. It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot, and see - Now it's shot full of these electric bolts. Zing! A resurrection! _ -”

“Wait,  _ what _ ?” Simon said- “Stop. Read it again.” Baz read it again, and Simon started to say something- but then stopped when Baz glared at him.

“I’m trying to  _ read,  _ here, Snow.” 

“And I’m trying to analyze, Pitch.” 

“Would you just listen?” Baz tapped the paper pointedly, and Simon rolled his eyes again, but he could feel the flush in his cheeks. It wasn’t Baz- it was the poem. The goddamn poem. He wished he never asked for help on his english homework. 

“ _ Once it was a boat, quite wooden, and with no business, no salt water under it, and in need of some paint. It was no more, than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her. She's been elected _ ...”

“It’s about sex.” Simon interrupted, quite plainly. That  _ was _ the obvious answer- with all the talk of tearing off garments and electricity. He fought to keep his composure as Baz looked up from the paper, an eyebrow raised in cool disdain- but for a moment, he felt like the poem. A zing of electricity in his veins, the possibility of something other than nothing. Baz kept reading. 

“ _ My nerves are turned on. I hear them like musical instruments. Where there was silence, the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.”  _ Baz looked up from the paper then, locking eyes with the other boy. Simon felt his his breath hitch, but not unpleasantly. Heat flushed on his skin. Adrenaline whispered at his heart. “ _ Pure genius at work.”  _ It didn’t feel like Baz was reading a poem anymore. “ _ Darling, the composer has stepped into fire _ .” 

And then the poem fell into his lap, and Simon just watched it- analyzing the text was the last thing on his mind. His mouth felt dry- and he couldn’t stop himself from staring. Why was he staring? There wasn’t anything new to look at- dark hair, tanned skin, grey eyes. It felt like he was seeing Baz for the first time. Not just looking, but seeing. There was more to him than the rich boy facade. There was more to the two of them together than violence. There was more to them than nothing, and when he realized that, he could not stand it. 

Simon stood up from his place on the couch, and walked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't write enough from baz's pov whoops?? sorry everyone. idk i'm having more fun with simon's on this fic so like... have fun with lots of simon. also: the poem in this chapter is the kiss by anne sexton


	13. chapter thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was such a strange thing for Simon to want someone else- when wanting anything, let alone another person, had brought him nothing but pain and disappointment. He didn’t know how to process wanting something anymore- it was a terrifying feeling, worse than standing on the edge of a cliff, worse than a night alone on the streets. Worse than moving into a new foster home, with no idea of what might come.
> 
> So he cried, because because he was afraid. So often, everything he did could boil down to those three, simple words- I am afraid.

“ _I know we are both struggling with recognizing bad things and letting them go but I need you to know: I am the bad thing._ ”

—Trista Mateer

“Simon?” Baz was pounding on the bathroom door, but Simon wasn’t about to move from his spot, crouched down in the shower stall. “Are you okay?” He didn’t respond- didn’t want to acknowledge Baz’s existence even more than he already had to. He didn’t want to think about the moment where he’d stopped thinking and started watching instead.

“Go away.”

He didn’t want to think about Baz and his long limbs and his dark hair and his grey eyes, all things that had never seemed even remotely special before. Why was this intrusive feeling all he could focus on? This _attraction._ He could barely stand to think the word, but as soon as he thought it, it became true. Or it had always been true, but he had never let go of his own fear for long enough to name it.

“Simon, please.” Baz had stopped banging at least, which gave Simon a moment of solace to try to untangle the fears and emotions tangling together like fishing line. He didn’t know if he wanted to lock himself in the bathroom forever, or open the door and crush Baz against him- and what would that even mean? Did he want to kiss the other boy, or hug him, or just cling to him like a life preserver? Simon wasn’t entirely sure. He just wanted to _touch_ \- which was why he stayed in the bathroom.

“I said _go. away_.” his feelings had grown too chaotic- Simon knew he couldn’t trust himself at the moment. The pounding on the door started again, and suddenly, his temper flared “Just go, Baz!” The pounding stopped and he felt almost guilty. Softly, so softly he wasn’t sure Baz would be able to hear- he said. “Just leave me alone.”

Eventually, Simon heard Baz’s receding footsteps, and it was only then that he wrapped his arms around his knees, tucked his head into his chest, and began to cry.

It was such a strange thing for Simon to want someone else- when wanting anything, let alone another person, had brought him nothing but pain and disappointment. He didn’t know how to process wanting something anymore- it was a terrifying feeling, worse than standing on the edge of a cliff, worse than a night alone on the streets. Worse than moving into a new foster home, with no idea of what might come.

So he cried, because because he was afraid. So often, everything he did could boil down to those three, simple words- _I am afraid_.

Bitterly, Simon thought back to the past two years he’d spent with David, how he’d finally gotten something good and now he’d ruined it. How David sneered when he flinched. “ _Coward_ .” That’s what he said, every single time. “ _You’re just a scared little boy_.” Simon thought, that perhaps David was right about some things.

….

Baz watched Simon like a hawk at dinner, taking note of how he pushed his food around on his plate instead of actually eating it, how his lips didn’t even twitch at Mordelia’s jokes like they usually did. How he avoided Baz’s gaze the entire time. What had he done? Simon didn’t talk that much- but even this was unusual for him.

He thought that after doing their homework together, they were back on a truce. Simon would stop ignoring him, and Baz would stop flirting- and everything would be fine. The flirting had to be what upset him, because what else could it be? Baz didn’t even know if it counted as real flirting- because he didn’t _mean_ to. It was mostly his body language that gave it away- he always ended up sitting directly facing Simon, or leaning towards the other boy across the table.

It wasn’t like Baz was trying to make his feelings clear- he didn’t even know if they counted as feelings yet. Thinking someone was gorgeous didn’t mean you were in love with them. It didn’t even mean you had to like them. It just meant that they were beautiful, and in some cases, given the opportunity- it meant that you wouldn’t mind kissing them. If Baz was being completely transparent, he _really_ wouldn’t mind kissing Simon.

He would mind hurting Simon though, and with the way Simon was acting now- he wasn’t sure it was entirely advisable to even consider kissing the other boy. Before, he’d been avoiding Baz, but now he was just skittish. He wouldn’t make eye contact, wouldn’t stand within arm’s length- when their ankles brushed under the table, Baz swore he saw Simon flinch.

Was it something he had done? Or was it some hidden wound from Simon’s past- angry and red, refusing to heal. He supposed the worst kind of battle was the one hidden inside the other boy, the thing that made him wake up screaming and shaking. There was a part of him that wanted to know what had happened to Simon, and a part of him that said he’d never want to know the horrors that haunted Simon’s head- because once he knew them, he couldn’t un-know them.

….

Simon had taken to eating lunch in the locker room instead of the cafeteria. Penelope’s company had become stifling, and more and more often, he found himself wishing he could be alone. It didn’t have anything to do with grey eyes staring across the room, or an unbearable itching sensation under his skin. He just wanted to be alone- that was all. That was _all_ . He promised himself he wasn’t avoiding Baz. He _wasn’t_.

So he sat in the dinky, yellow locker room- and picked at the chicken Natasha had sent him to school with. It became habit. Hiding in the locker room, avoiding Baz’s gaze- this wasn’t even the game of cat and mouse they’d played when Simon first moved in. This was cowering. This was fear- not fear of Baz, but fear of himself, fear of wanting anything at all. He didn’t know what to do, so he just picked at his food, and ran from his problems like that would make them go away.

But they never did.

Across the room at night, when he tried to fall asleep- grey eyes caught on blue. It felt like his skin was on fire- and the itching was incessant. He tried to ignore it.

….

Baz didn’t really mean to start following Simon, but it just happened. It helped that they lived together, and went to the same school- but he didn’t have any excuse for loitering in the hallway outside of Simon’s math class during their breaks. He didn’t have any excuse for the tightening in his chest when Simon brushed past him, out into the cold to smoke a cigarette.

He couldn’t decide if his worry was justified, because on one hand- Simon was acting completely normal, if a little quiet, and he was getting better grades. But on the other hand...his nightmares were getting worse. There was less whimpering and more screaming, more poorly concealed panic attacks in their room at night.

Baz tried to help, but Simon nearly punched him again- which he didn’t really think was personal, in that state- so he backed off. He waited until Simon had calmed down enough to storm off to the bathroom, and then left a mug of tea on the kitchen counter. He always found it empty in the sink the next morning- and it was the closest Simon had come to interacting with him in days.

Almost unconsciously, Baz found himself frequenting Simon’s favorite haunts, and when the locker room door creaked open- he was almost surprised to see Simon stalking in. At the creaking noise, Baz looked up from his book- something about teenagers with questionable morals- and frowned. There was a bloody scrape on Simon’s hand, from his knuckles to his wrist.

“Where did that come from?”

Simon shrugged, which Baz supposed, was the best he was going to get out of the other boy. “That’s going to get infected if you don’t clean it.” Baz said, unable to reign in the concern from his voice.

“Whatever, mum.” Simon said, rolling his eyes. Baz felt a spark of heat in his stomach at Simon’s familiar teasing- he’d missed their casual conversations, the way Simon seemed to make him feel at ease now.

“C’mere.” Baz said. “Let me look at it.”

Simon huffed, leaning back on the sinks- holding his hand out like an invitation. Baz stood from the rickety bench he’d been reading on, and crossed the room to examine Simon’s hand.

....

The feeling of Baz’s fingertips on his skin was strangely electrifying, and Simon watched, absently entranced, as the dark-haired boy cleaned his wound. He wasn’t doing a very good job at avoiding him, it seemed, if they ended up nearly cheek to cheek in the school’s grimy locker room. He didn’t know if he cared enough to stop, to check himself and step away- so he just let Baz dab at his hand with a paper towel, and tried to ignore the stinging of the cuts.

He’d tripped down the stairs, but he wasn’t about to say that _that_ was how he’d gotten the abrasion, and scraped off a layer of skin on the rough-hewn brick of their school grounds. He just scowled as Baz pressed the paper towel against a particularly tender part of the wound, and then tried to hide his smile when Baz finished and kept going, dabbing at his hands and fingers with a bloody paper towel.  

If he was being honest, it felt good to be touched in this simple, affectionate way. The feeling of someone else’s hands on his skin, for once, wasn’t revolting. It was pleasant, and Baz was almost smiling at him. Simon wanted to smile back- and a tiny, helpless laugh escaped him at the situation, but he quickly schooled his expression.

“I’m sorry.” It was probably the kindest thing he’d ever said to Baz. “For pushing you away.” Baz dropped his hand, Simon guessed out of surprise- which he supposed was valid, because he rarely said anything even close to sentimental when it came to anyone. “I’m not always the best with taking about…” He trailed off. “-Stuff. And I know I’m an ass, and you don’t really care about me, but-”

Baz cut him off with a kiss that Simon hadn’t been expecting, warm and insistent, effectively muffling his speech. Suddenly, he didn’t know what to do. A spark of heat pooled in his stomach, and for a moment- he kissed back. But then his lips parted and Baz’s tongue was in his mouth and a sudden wake of panic overtook him like black static. He forgot where he was, who was kissing him, everything except the fear that ate him alive.

He shoved Baz, hard, so hard that the other boy fell back into the sink, his arm wrenching at an uncomfortable angle. Simon still couldn’t process what had happened. His skin was crawling, his head was pounding.

“Simon-” Baz started but it was useless.

“ _Get the hell away from me._ ” His voice sounded vicious- he couldn’t help the animal instinct that fear brought out in him. When Baz didn’t move, he repeated himself “I said. Get. The. Hell. _Away from me_.”

He didn’t have to say it again- Baz left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmm so idk if i fucked up with pacing here but?? sorry for taking so long to update- stuff has gotten kinda busy for me and i also started planning an original novel so.. that's why it took so long to update lol

**Author's Note:**

> sooooo i have like?? little to no plans on where this fic is going but i wanted to post it anyways?? oops?? the concept is loosely based off the film 'being 17' although i've only seen the trailer, so it can't follow the plot very accurately.


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